


Curse, Interrupted

by WhyTFNot



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, F/M, Fix-It, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Nightmares, Trauma Recovery, eddie and stanley survive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2020-10-27 16:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20763059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyTFNot/pseuds/WhyTFNot
Summary: At 2:13 AM, fourteen years after they parted, the 27 year old losers club finds themselves suddenly able to remember everything they had forgotten about their past. They return to Derry, desperate to figure out what it means that they suddenly remember each other again, well before the 27 year mark is up.





	1. Chapter 1

Bill Denbrough sat straight up in his bed. He relaxed a bit as he took in the dark but empty room in front of him, relaxing even more as he heard Audra’s gentle sleep noises beside him. He flipped his phone over on the bedside table to check the time. Shielding his eyes a little from the brightness he read 2:13 am off the screen, as well as an instagram notification from about an hour earlier. 

_ Alright,  _ he sighed to himself. If he got this written down quickly and went back to bed, waking up for that morning spin class Audra wanted to go to wouldn’t be so bad. 

He slowly lifted himself off the mattress, trying not to wake his sleeping girlfriend, and wandered out into his living room in just his boxers, setting himself down on the couch with his computer in front of him.

“Fuck,” He mumbled as his screen saver burned itself into the back of his corneas. He found the brightness button with his eyes half closed, turning the lamp on behind him as well to offset the blinding white of Google Drive. Finally able to see again, he scrolled leisurely through his documents until he found the folder he wanted. 

_ Dreams_Horror (76 files) _

He opened it and created a new document, his fingers furiously typing as soon as the cursor started blinking. 

He’d be the first to admit that most of the documents in this folder would never go anywhere. And he’d be right. He had talked to his editor before about maybe compiling a book of horror short stories, but she had quickly pointed out that none of what he had so far were stories. They were the beginnings of stories, maybe. If he could come up with endings for them, even some of them, she had said, they would talk again.

But even though he had too many beginnings to dreams and not enough ends, he still wrote every one of them down. He couldn’t explain it really, except he had been having nightmares for almost thirteen years and every time he woke up he felt that he would regret it if he didn’t write it down. Because even though each dream was brand new to him, letting it slip away after he returned to consciousness felt like forgetting  _ again. _

Whatever that meant. 

This dream was short. A rainy afternoon, a sewer, a pair of too-bright-yellow eyes. It was all down on the paper before Bill could even really begin to make sense of it. And he didn’t try to. He’d go back through it in the morning like he always did, coffee in hand, Audra’s lipstick softly staining his cheek. 

But he couldn’t go back to bed just yet. He felt slightly charged, his nerves on edge, just like he always did after transcribing a dream, so he flicked through his writing drafts on his computer mindlessly, trying to calm himself down.

His mouse paused over the document for the finished copy of his only published book. He was so proud of it, and yet wildly embarrassed at the same time. He could hear his editor’s crooning in his head.  _ 27 is so young to have such a successful book. You should be nothing but proud. Of course the ending could have been better, but we’ll work on that.  _

She was right on both counts of course. It was successful. It had sold extremely well for a debut and it mortified him to see his face and his words plastered to the windows of bookstores in town. But the ending was shit. He agreed. He was terrible at endings. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, his stories never felt like they were over. And ending them always felt like brutal murder, in a sense. Unfortunately, that’s how his readers felt about it too.

He clicked away from his only finished draft, in favor of a mostly finished one. His second book, courtesy of his fancy new book deal, was almost finished. That is, he had finished telling the story he had wanted to, he just didn’t know how to say goodbye. 

So he sat there on his couch in the middle of the night, typing and retyping sentences, embarrassingly erasing everything his tired brain came up with. 

“Babe?”

“AH!” Bill jumped, as a tired looking Audra shuffled from their bedroom to the living room. “Oh my god, you scared me. Did my clicking wake you?”

“No, I had to go to the bathroom. Writing down a dream?” She closed the space between them and curled up next to him on the couch. 

Bill let her body relax into his, shifting his arm around her shoulder so he could reach the keyboard again. “I was. Now I’m working on my endings.”

“Ooh,” She gasped mockingly, “That’s the real horror.”

“Thanks for the support,” He laughed, and then turned his computer screen to face her. “Does this line sound out of character?” He had been struggling with one character’s dialogue for the entirety of the book, a teenage girl named Penny, purely because she was just so unlike him. Thankfully, Audra had been particularly helpful with insight on the brains of teenage girls. 

She blinked a pair of bleary eyes as she sat up and leaned forward to read the line. “Hmmm…” She shook her head. “No, I like it.  **Pennywise** .”

A jolt ran through Bill’s spine as his blood ran cold. “Did- did- did you- did you just say P- pennywise?” His tongue felt thick in his mouth and the words fell out like cement blocks, weighed down by the stutter he thought he had left behind him. Audra, in her half conscious state, didn't register his discomfort.

“No sweetheart, I said,  _ Penny’s wise. _ ” She wrapped an arm around his waist and snuggled closer. “I like the dialogue.”

But Bill tensed up. That one word, once heard, could not be unheard, and it sent his mind reeling at full force. “I th-think I’m going to be sick.” He shoved her arms off him unceremoniously, and threw himself across the living room in two giant steps, tossing himself over the kitchen sink only to dry heave into the basin. Audra, a little more awake after having been shoved to the floor, followed after him.

“Billy?”

Bill dry heaved again as Georgie’s face swam before his eyes. “D-Don’t call m-me that.” He whispered, his voice hoarse and his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the sink. He saw Georgie first, and then Richie, then Mike, then piece after piece of the dreams he had written on his computer suddenly stitched together into one terrifying memory. His shoulders tensed as Audra’s hand found its way to his back, and he bit his lip to fight the impulse to smack her away. The terror coursing through his veins sent white spots into his vision, but he took one shuddering breath and pushed every feeling inside him to the depths of his stomach.

“Sweetie?” Her voice was shaky.

“I th-think I m-may h-have caught a stomach b-b-b” He took a deep breath, the ‘B’ caught in his mouth like his tongue was velcro. “A stomach b-bug.” He finally got the word out, his heart aching at Audra’s scared face. She had never heard him stutter before.

“Are you sure you’re o-”

“G-go back to b-b-bed.” He shoved her back into the living room, trying to get her to leave before the dam inside him broke. “I’ll t-take some t-t-tums, and b-be back in a sec-second.” 

Bill turned away from her and stayed that way until he heard her retreat into the bedroom. As soon as he heard the creak of the mattress he closed and bolted the kitchen door behind him, slid to the floor, and began to cry. 

He bit the inside of his left hand to keep his sobs silent, his lip brushing a scar in his palm he had never noticed.  _ I guess,  _ He thought shakily,  _ now it was a scar he wished he had never remembered. _

***

Eddie Kaspbrak willed his eyelids back open as he fumbled with his key ring outside the front door to his apartment. He finally found the right damn key and slipped it into the lock, turning it quietly and praying it didn’t wake his wife, who should be sleeping in their bedroom down the hall. Still struggling to keep his eyes open, he pushed the door ajar and held it there. Slowly, he slipped one foot out of it’s shoe, placing his clean sock onto his clean floor. He did the same with his other foot, then turned behind him to pick up his dirty shoes, which he had left sitting on the door mat. Eddie pulled the door shut behind him and took a moment to rest his head on the solid wood of the inside of his front door, his tired ragged breaths moistening the paint. 

Oh, he was so tired. He had spent the night driving around strangers and wannabe celebrities in the back of his limousine, listening to them bitch about their rich person problems, watching through the rearview mirror as they snorted coke off of cupholder rims, and made out with each other on his seats. To be fair, the fact that at 27 his limousine business was already attracting people with the money for recreational coke was impressive, but it didn’t mean he liked hauling drug addled strangers around all night. He groaned as he thought about the horrors of shared public spaces, but he pushed it out of his mind for now. 

The car he could clean tomorrow, but as he walked down the hall to his bedroom, he could feel the weight of tonight’s tips heavy in his pockets, money that had probably been pressed up against a stripper’s ass cheek not long before it was pressed into his hand. He knew that if he didn’t shower soon, he wouldn’t be able to sleep, even if it was already 2:13 in the morning.

So he quietly slipped into his bedroom, checking once to see if he had woken the Myra-shaped lump under the covers, and then moving on to the bathroom when he saw that he hadn’t. He took his clothes off in the bathroom, placing them immediately into the hamper so he wouldn’t get the floor dirty. He paused for a moment, hand in his hair, when he realized he had forgotten to take his tips out of his pockets, but decided maybe running them through the wash was a good idea. He turned the shower on.

Steam enveloped him as he stepped in. He had always liked his showers hotter than hell itself. That’s the only way he ever really felt clean after. He let his eyes close as he poured shampoo into his hand, letting the lilac scent lure him dangerously close to sleep. His head dipped a little, the motion jolting him back awake, and he blinked a few times before bringing the shampoo up to his head. 

He was leaned back against the wall with his hands tangled in his hair and mouth open, when his wife’s heavy footsteps into the bathroom pulled him back to consciousness. 

“Eddie!” Myra’s voice was shrill, and cut through the early morning air like a knife. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

Eddie jumped off the wall, startled at the noise, before he poked his head out from behind the curtain. “I’m a little busy,” He whispered, not really sure why except that it was early and he felt like he should be quiet. “Why was the phone ringing?” Who the hell would be calling this early?

“Because someone was calling.” Myra clearly didn’t share his opinion about being quiet, as her shrill voice seemed to get even louder. 

“Well who was it?” Eddie said, wishing he was already asleep, as he looked at his wife standing there with her hands on her hips from behind the shower curtain. 

“ **Your mom.** ” Myra said, and in Eddie’s mind her voice sounded different. Still shrill, yes, but prepubescent instead of feminine. 

But it was too late for him to dwell on that, or to dwell on the fact that he felt his muscle memory kick in and heard himself say “Fuck off, Tozier.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Eddie felt wide awake. The tension in the room was palpable as he watched Myra tense, then furrow her eyebrows as she went from listening to understanding. “What did you just say to me?”

“I- I- don’t kn- know.” Eddie stuttered, suddenly feeling like Bill. His heart froze. Bill? How long had it been since he had thought that name? He whipped his head behind the shower curtain, blocking Myra out as his heart pounded into his ears. 

“You don’t know?!” She was basically shouting now, but she stayed on the other side of the shower curtain, leaving Eddie covered. He sank to the floor, one arm around his wet knees, one hand over his mouth, water streaming down his face. It felt like a wall had burst somewhere in his mind, which was now flooding with visions of clowns, and lepers, and thick coke bottle glasses. 

He felt Myra shift her weight impatiently, but he couldn’t answer her even if he had wanted to, great silent sobs racking his body.

“Fine, just call her back in the morning, asshole.” She stormed out of the bathroom, calling behind her as she went, “And you’re sleeping on the couch tonight!” The bathroom door slammed as punctuation to her sentence.

The water had run cold by the time Eddie stood up. He ran his numb, pruned fingers through his hair, getting rid of the last remnants of shampoo before he turned the water off. 

He lay on the couch for hours, wet hair freezing under the air conditioning unit blasting down on his head, before exhaustion finally took him. He fell asleep, gently rubbing the palm of his left hand.

***

Ben Hanscom was trying not to fall asleep in his drink. His boss was one seat away where he had been sweet-talking their newest client over single malt scotch for the last three and a half hours. 

“And you see, Mr. Embers, we try very hard at this firm to keep a fresh perspective.” He clapped Ben on the shoulder, who started a bit, and then tried brushing it off as a cough. “That’s why we hired Ben, here. He’s a very bright young man, and you may be familiar with his work over in Sydney, Australia.”

Ben tried not to blush. He was well aware that, even as a relatively new hire, he was his firm’s crown jewel. He’d only been there long enough to complete three projects, but they had been extremely well received, bringing in a flood of new clients, including Mr. Embers. 

And believe him, he knew how lucky he was to be a successful architect at only 27, with virtually his whole life ahead of him, but because it was his fault that the firm was now swamped with offers, he got to sit in on all the late night meetings, where they drank something strong and tried to out-flatter each other until Ben couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. 

He supposed he wasn’t entirely opposed to the practice, he just wished they could do it earlier than- he checked his watch- 2:13 in the morning. 

None of the business side of architecture came naturally to him, and he had to struggle to keep up as his boss and Mr. Embers rattled on and on about stocks, and real estate prices, and things of that sort. The designing, though, that’s where he felt at home.

He had known since he’d left architecture school with the highest honors that he was building things to make people feel something. It was like he was sculpting places, trying to get a reaction out of people. He also knew that the feeling he was trying to make people feel was a very specific one, but he had no idea what that feeling was. And any time he tried to think about it for too long, all that came up was shower caps, and a bucket of rusty nails before his head started to hurt and he stopped. And shower caps and rusty nails weren’t something you saw in most modern architecture. So eventually he just stopped thinking about it, and channelled his creative effort into churning out sketch after sketch of building upon building hoping one would spark the exact feeling he was looking for.

None of them did. Instead they sparked job offer after job offer at his company, which Ben supposed was a good thing. And it did mean that Ben got to help create beautiful buildings day in and day out. Not to mention he got paid an obnoxious amount of money for said buildings. 

But he still felt as if he was missing something.  _ Or maybe _ , Ben thought,  _ missing wasn’t the right word. _ He felt as if he was forgetting something. 

“Isn’t that right, Ben?” His boss’s voice floated into his ear, interrupting his zoning out. He was thinking about shower caps again, but this time it felt like he was closer to grasping whatever it was he was missing. No, forgetting. 

“Yes, yes of course sir.” Ben nodded thoughtfully, hoping that whatever he had agreed to was in fact correct. But the conversation moved on without him, only this time he tried to pay a bit more attention. 

Mr. Embers was inquiring about the soonest time Ben’s boss thought their firm could start his project. His boss was rifling through a large desk calendar, marked thoroughly with black sharpie. 

“Hmm we’ve got concurrent projects clear until next year,” His boss muttered thoughtfully as he flipped. “Ah, there’s an opening! What about  **January, Embers** ?”

“My heart burns there too.” Ben hadn’t even realized he said it, gentle words whispered into his drink, until he looked up into the stares of his two colleagues. 

“What was that son?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know.” He tried to stay present, but suddenly his mind was elsewhere, flooding with memories, good and bad, of red balloons and red hair and red ‘V’s drawn on plaster casts. “I think I have to go. I can’t wait to work on your project Mr. Embers.” Ben put his glass down on the desk with a clink and stood to leave. 

His knees were shaking as he walked out the door, but he was smiling. He wanted his buildings to make people feel safe. A vision of an underground clubhouse, full of kids wearing shower caps, filled his head. He wanted his buildings to make people feel at home.

He could see his younger self standing by a bucket of rusty nails, driving nail after nail into the support beams. 

_ Home,  _ he thought, as the memories kept coming.

That’s where he had to go. No matter what was waiting there for him.

***

“One vodka cranberry please,” Beverly Marsh smiled at the bartender as she gave her order. She rubbed her aching fingers as she waited, wincing as her nail scraped over a tender spot, the underside of her pointer finger which frequently found itself impaled on sewing needles. The bartender returned with her drink and she smiled again as she offered him her card, sipping her drink as she waited for him to swipe it. She rolled the alcohol around her tongue. She made her drinks stronger at home.

She took her card back from the waiter, leaving him a sizable tip, and turned around to survey the bar. She doubted it would usually be this busy at this time of night, but she and a few other designers had just finished showing their collections to a number of swanky investors who had flown all the way to Chicago from New York. 

It had gone well, she thought as she sipped her drink, smiling at a few of her colleagues, but boy did New Yorkers like to stay up late. 

A few investors sparked up a conversation with her, having been very impressed with her collection. “And so young,” An elderly man leered as he put a hand on her wrist, “Just 27. I always say that young people know best when it comes to staying ahead of the market.”

“That does make sense,” Beverly tried to laugh good naturedly as she detracted her wrist from his cold and clammy grasp. She tried not to visibly shudder, but it was like being touched by a corpse. She could see Tom, her fiance, in a different corner of the room watching her. As protective as he was, he was almost too eager to let her get flirted with by anyone who had money.  _ We’re just trying to make friends in high places,  _ He’d say.

The old man smiled wider at her. It didn’t look like a friendly smile.

“And so beautiful too.” The old man pressed on, leaning closer until she could smell the scotch on his breath. “Beauty goes far in this industry. It can open doors for you.” Beverly fought back a grimace at the implication. Her body language must not have been clear enough, or maybe he was just choosing to ignore it, because he pressed on.

“I mean, that porcelain skin. And your hair.” He took a shuddering breath. “ **Your hair is like fire** .” 

Beverly’s head snapped back at those words.  _ Your hair is winter fire. _ The refrain swam across her vision with the face of a sweet boy. She leaned away from the man.  _ January embers _ . A boy who wouldn’t treat her like this.  _ My heart burns there too. _

She took a step back.  _ Ben,  _ she thought,  _ Oh my god, how could I forget Ben. _ “I’m sorry I have to go.” Ben’s face in her mind grew stronger as she walked away, and then suddenly it was accompanied by Richie’s, and Eddie’s. 

She could hear Tom behind her as she walked as fast as she could to the exit. If she stopped now he would get her. If she stopped now she’d never be free.

Once she was in the alley behind the bar, she launched herself as quietly as she could onto the fire escape, huddled in the corner, one hand over her mouth to quiet her breathing. She heard Tom burst through the door, but she didn’t dare look down. She could hear him pacing around the exit. 

“BEVERLY!” His shout echoed off the bare brick walls. “Where the fuck did she go?”

She waited until he turned out of the alley way and started off down the street before she took her hand away from her mouth, her fingers soaked from tears she didn’t know she had been crying. 

Her phone screen lit up, a picture of her and Tom underneath the words  _ Call from Tom Rogan, _ but she ignored it until it went away. 

Instead she sat there feeling warm and sad all at the same time as she thought about Ben. And Richie, and Eddie, and Bill, and Mike. And Stan.

Her heart rate dropped as she suddenly saw a bathtub filled with murky red water, a quick vision but a familiar one. Oh my god, she had to call Stan.

***

“It’s 2:13 Tozier, you’re up in 2,” The bartender held up two fingers as he walked by with another round of beers for the table in the front.

“Yeah, don’t fucking remind me.” Richie finished his rum and coke in one swig and pushed back from the bar, ignoring the slight wobble in his legs. He was so fucking tired of doing end of the night gigs in dive bars. Hell, it was 2 in the morning he was so fucking tired, period.

His agent, if you could call someone with two clients that, had found him from listening to his radio show and was convinced Richie should do stand up comedy. “You have the voice for it,” The guy had crooned over drinks, his hand uncomfortably close to Richie’s own. And so his agent had started setting him up with shitty time-slots in shitty bars, and hired somebody else to write him shitty sets. When he had asked why he couldn’t just write his own sets, his agent had laughed as told him that he just needed to get his name out there first. Paying dues, was all this was.

_ Dues _ , Richie though to himself as he unsteadily made his way up to the stage, the last act’s applause still echoing around the room.  _ I’m a twenty-seven year old radio host with an english degree dustier than Eddie’s mom’s pussy. I’ve got student loans, I don’t need dues.  _ He chuckled at his own joke a bit and then stopped. Who the fuck was Eddie?

“Richie Tozier, everyone!” Richie didn’t have time to answer his own question so his slightly alcohol soaked mind pushed the thought away as the bartender handed him the mic. He was tired anyways, so he let it go, grabbing the mic and swinging himself around to face the twelve odd people who were going to maybe laugh at his jokes tonight.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?” His stage personality took over, always present, even behind the alcohol, and he stumbled his way through his first couple jokes. 

The audience wasn’t enthusiastic but they weren’t adamantly opposed to him either, so he kept trucking. The length of his set seemed to be just enough time for most of the alcohol to metabolize it’s way out of his system. By the time the last joke rounded the corner, he was feeling beat, but sober enough to at least wake up the next afternoon without a hangover.

“And that, my good friends, is why I’m no longer allowed in any Mcdonalds south of the Bay Area.” He finished to a few final chuckles. “But why would I go to Mcdonald’s when I can come to-” He peeked at the sign on the door again. “The Cosmic Turtle.” He raised an eyebrow at the name, earning himself another laugh. “Well, you guys have been alright. Th- th- that’s all folks!” His Porky Pig impression was always best after a few drinks. 

He placed the mic back into its stand and walked over to the bar to collect his ‘pay’, nodding at a few of the patrons on his way there. Despite this being the fifth gig his agent had gotten him, he hadn’t been able to snag him a paying one yet.

“Exposure is really the best payment you can ask for at this point,” The man had told him once as Richie fought back the impulse to ask him which Beverly Hills landlords accepted exposure in lieu of rent.

He tried not to grimace as the bartender handed him two free beer vouchers. He balked though when he saw the fine print saying **with the purchase of one drink of greater or equal value.

“Come on man, seriously?” Richie protested, waving the coupons. “This is my third gig here, and you can’t even give me a coupon where I don’t have to buy something first?”

“Sorry,” The bartender shrugged, wiping down a glass and not really paying Richie much attention. 

“You know capitalism has ruined art for this country.” Richie went off onto his anti-capitalism rant that he had tried the last two times. “I’d love to do free shows for you man, I know how much business I bring in,” He gestured comically to the almost empty bar, “But I have mouths to feed. I don’t want your mom going hungry after our one night stands,” He made to keep going but the bartender cut him off.

“ **Beep beep, Richie** .” For a second, the bartender’s voice sounded a pitch higher, the tinny syllables of a thirteen year old boy. A voice he had heard before.

Richie felt the blood drain straight out of his face. “What did you say to me?” He stammered, his voice so soft he wasn’t sure the bartender could even hear him.

“I said it’s not that deep Richie.” The bartender repeated what he had said and gave him a weird look. Richie blinked. He must have misheard. “You’re just not a big name yet and I can’t afford to pay the people doing my 2 am shows. You’ll get there.”

Mistake or not, Richie couldn’t feel anything below his waist. He numbly swiped the vouchers off the counter and started stumbling backwards. “Yeah man, whatever, my bad.” He turned around and pushed his way out the door, tumbling into the street. Legs shaking he made it all the way to the nearest lamppost before he grabbed hold of the metal and threw up into the street.  _ What the fuck was going on? _

Frantic hands pulled the crushed marlboro carton out of his shirt pocket, and shaking fingers placed one cigarette into the corner of his mouth before shoving the carton back into his jacket. His breath came in short ragged bursts as he lit it, his mind reeling. He sucked half of the cigarette into his lungs in one breath before he collapsed onto the curb, just inches away from his own vomit. 

Still shaking, he pulled out his phone, the screen glaringly bright in the darkness of the street. He held smoke in his lungs as he opened instagram and began to type in a name he hadn’t thought about it 13 years.

_ Eddie Kaspbrak _

***

“Baby, please don’t go.” Patricia whined at Stan from her bed, still twisted in the sheets from their earlier activities. “You know I don’t mind you staying over.”

Stan sighed and steeled himself against his girlfriend’s advances. “Patty, I’m sorry, I would, but I didn’t bring an overnight bag.” He grinned a little, trying not to let his voice shake. “And I don’t think your pajamas would fit me.”

She finally relented, knowing he wasn’t telling the full truth, but also sensing not to push him. And she was right. He intentionally forgot his overnight bag every time he knew they’d be at her place late, and he tried never to have her over at his place late enough where she might want to stay over. In fact throughout the entire course of their relationship, they had never spent a whole night together. It became a tricky dance after nearly two years of dating, but he kept it up, paralyzed by his fear more than he was moved by his feelings for her.

And he was afraid. Every night, with-out fail, he was woken, sometimes by his own screams, sometimes just because he was so terror stricken that he had stopped breathing, but always by the same nightmare.

IT.

And he knew Patty wouldn’t hate him for the nightmares. That she would be sympathetic, and would try and get him help. But he had been trying to get help for thirteen years, and now, at 27 years old, had tried every antidepressant, every antipsychotic, and still had daily nightmares.

And even worse than that, he didn’t know how to explain to her that he knew they were real. He had been there, and he didn’t know when or where or with who, but he had. And he’d do anything not to go back. 

So he picked up his wallet from her bedside table, the attached key ring rattling in his hand, and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

“It’s so late.” Patricia looked at her bedroom clock, the digital face blinking 2:13. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” He went to protest again, but she countered with, “You can sleep naked.”

Stanley laughed, but only muttered, “I’ll see you later,” to her disappointed expression before walking down the hall, closing her front door softly behind him. 

He walked down her darkened driveway to his car, unlocking it before he slipped inside. He gave himself the same talk he did every night as he made his way home. 

_ It’s not real. _

He pulled out of the driveway.

_ It may have been real once, but it’s not anymore. _

He rolled though a stop sign, and turned onto the road that would lead him back to his own house, his own bed.

_ A dream cannot hurt you. You will wake up tomorrow like you always do, scared, but fine. _

At the end of the road he took two successive turns, finally pulling onto his own street.

_ Maybe tonight will be different. Maybe tonight you won’t see that fucking clown. _

He pulled into his driveway and turned off his car. The world around him was so quiet, and still that for a second he let his head rest on his hands. 

Not for the first time, he let himself wonder why he kept going. Why he kept dating Patricia, even though after two years he knew he liked her but didn’t love her. Why he let her believe that he was happy, when he was indifferent at best. Why he kept popping a sleeping pill every night hoping it would help even when he knew if he took the whole bottle he could end it for good. Why he kept pretending everything was ok when it so clearly wasn’t.

He sighed again, pushing the thoughts out of his brain, like if they weren’t at the forefront of his mind he wouldn’t ever have to deal with them. Grimacing, he put his hand on the car door handle, bracing himself for the night ahead of him, when a shrill sound cut through the silent night.

Stan jumped, frantic, as a marimba melody split apart his eardrums. The dash of his car had lit up and a chicago area code was displayed across the screen as a call connected to his bluetooth system. A sane person would decline any call they got from an unknown number after 2:30 in the morning but Stan would do anything to delay sleeping at this point. Hands a little shaky, he pressed accept, and offered a tentative, “Hello?”

“ **Stanley** , oh my god, you picked up.” A woman’s voice rang out through his empty car, and instantly recognition surged through him, bringing him both panic and peace.

Peace, because he suddenly remembered how loved he had felt with those six other people, the warmth of those memories burning fiercely in the back of his mind. 

Panic, because if this was who he thought it was then he knew what this meant.

“Beverly,” Stan whispered into the receiver.

“Yes.” She responded, tears thick in her voice.

His face went numb, as he felt the lies he had carefully constructed for himself come crashing down around him.

He would have to go back.

***

It was 2:13 am and Mike Hanlon slept peacefully in his apartment above the Derry Library. His sleep was anything but fitful. He dreamt of the date he had last week, of the colors the leaves are starting to turn along the streets, of the movie he saw last week at the Aladdin. 

He’d been doing research the past thirteen years on the happenings of Derry, sure, but right now, in the middle of a peaceful sleep that research and the events it chronicles seem very far away. 

It seems still further when he wakes up the next morning, stumbling into his kitchen like he always does to pour an obnoxious amount of cereal into his only bowl. 

It floats even further off in the distance as he picks out an outfit, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and slips his shoes on. 

But suddenly, it seems right on top of him, seeping into his pores as he sits in front of his computer, ready to start the day, and reads the following line at the top of his inbox:

  
**Bill Denbrough: I remember.**


	2. Chapter 2

Mike’s hands shook as he slowly dragged the cursor to hover over that name. He felt thirteen and terrified again, the subject line confirming the fear he thought he wouldn’t have to confront again for several more years. His breath rattled in his chest as he tried to decide what to do.

Slowly he got up from his chair behind the front desk computer, and walked to the front door of the library, relocking it even though he unlocked it mere minutes ago. He flipped the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’ and walked on unsteady legs back to his computer. 

He wouldn’t be doing anything else today.

The mouse was still hovering over that dreaded email, and with bated breath Mike clicked on Bill Denbrough’s name. 

**Mike,**

**It’s been a while. **

Mike paused, allowing himself to believe based on Bill’s tone that this was just a regular email. An old friend reaching out after a decade just to catch up. But then he remembered that based only on the fact that Bill addressed him by name, it couldn’t be. He kept reading.

**I don’t even know how to start this email, except that in the middle of the night last night I remembered you, and everyone else, and every** ** _thing_ ** ** else. I hadn’t even realized I had forgotten.**

Mike had to remind his own shaking hands that he knew this would happen. He knew eventually he’d have to call them back to Derry, and they would remember, and it would probably be awful. The only thing was, he hadn’t called Bill. Bill had reached out to him.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

**I don’t know why I suddenly remember things, but I can only assume that means something has happened in Derry. Especially since I’m not the only one. Eddie Kaspbrak called me this morning saying much of the same thing. **

Eddie. Mike smiled fondly, pretty confident he knew how that phone call had gone. He could hear Eddie’s voice in his mind, frantically trying to put the pieces together, his mind always seeming to work faster than the rest of theirs. Oh, but it had been thirteen years. Mike wondered how much he had changed. 

**I’m sure you know more than the rest of us, but you can fill us in when we get there. We’re coming back. We made a promise, if I remember correctly. **

Mike was impressed with Bill’s responsibility, just as he had been when they were kids. He was always ready to help, even if it meant putting his life in danger. Actually, he seemed to be more inclined to help the more life threatening the danger was. 

**I’ve emailed Richie too, and I tried calling Stan earlier, but he didn’t pick up.**

Even though, having never left Derry, Mike hadn’t forgotten his friends, hearing their names again made their images grow firmer in his mind. And even though the circumstances were formidable he found his chest growing warm at the thought of seeing them again, thirteen years earlier than he had expected.

**I can’t seem to find contact information for Beverly or Ben, so I was hoping you could reach out to them. **

Mike opened the drawer nearest the computer and pulled out a slip of paper with Ben’s email address on it. He had gotten it from Ben’s parents who still lived in town. Beverly’s phone number was written underneath it, which he had found on the internet after seeing one of her fashion lines on instagram. Contact information for Richie, Eddie, and Bill were also on the slip of paper but he supposed he wouldn’t need those. He had never been able to keep tabs on Stan.

**I’ll be there tomorrow. I can’t wait to see you again.**

He hovered his cursor over Bill’s email signature, collecting his thoughts as he tried to think of how to proceed. 

Finally, he decided to forward Bill’s email to Ben, writing a little note of his own at the top. _ Hey Ben. Looks like the club is getting back together again. See below. Hope I see you tomorrow. _ He had decided shorter was better. They would have so much to talk about when they met, there was no use getting into it over email. 

Next he flipped through a stack of take out menus on his desk, before settling on one from ‘Jade of the Orient’. He phoned the number on the back of the pamphlet and made a reservation for 7, tomorrow night at 8.

Finally he dialed the phone number printed neatly below the name Beverly Marsh, preceded by a Chicago area code. 

“Beverly? It’s Mike.”

***

For the first time in almost fourteen years Stan woke with a resting heart beat. After his phone call with Beverly, he had paced around his bedroom for hours, before his shaking knees finally forced him to stop. Then he had sat at the edge of his bed and picked at his fingernails until they were barely there, the flood of memories still swirling through his mind. But then he couldn’t keep his eyelids open any more and was forced to lie down, slipping into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke, he was left with almost no time to revel in the fact that nightmares hadn’t plagued his unconscious mind, as he remembered the night before. It made sense really, nightmares seemed almost redundant now, when his life had suddenly transformed into a horror film. 

Laying there on top of his covers, still in his clothes from the night before, he felt rested, but his nerves felt frayed, like someone had roughed up the edges with a pair of blunt scissors while he slept. He considered not getting up, then his eyes caught the bottle of sleeping pills on his nightstand, and he considered never getting up.

But the pictures of his friend’s faces wouldn’t leave him alone, along with the feeling of betrayal he knew it would bring if he offed himself instead of facing them. Still it was tempting, knowing even if he didn’t like the consequences, he didn’t have to face them if he was dead.

_ You’re not alone, _ Beverly had whispered to him through the phone last night. _ We’re all scared, Stanley, but we’ll get through this together. _

He knew they loved him, but he was alone. He had always been the odd one out, and he hated it. None of them were Jewish. None of them were gay. None of them, he thought back to Bill, had been secretly in love with their best friend. None of them were constantly carrying a tight ball of fear in the middle of their chest, that just wouldn’t go away.

And none of them were at fault for any of these things either. But it didn’t make it any less lonely

Because sure, they were all scared, but only Stanley was paralyzed.

He sighed and pulled his phone off the bedside table, flipping it over and turning it on. He had a few text messages from Patty.

**2:45 AM: Hey did you make it home ok?**

**7:00 AM: sorry babe i fell asleep. You home?**

**7:15 AM: babe!?**

He sent her a quick reply, saying he was home and everything was ok, he had fallen asleep too. He hated this tendency of his, to immediately pretend everything was ok when he was falling apart on the inside. He supposed pretending you didn’t need help was easier than seeking it out.

His stomach clenched as the screen in his hand lit up.

**Call Waiting: Unknown Number**

It wasn’t Bev’s number from last night, which made his head spin. If another one of the Losers was calling him it meant that he and Bev weren’t alone in their sudden flood of nostalgia. It meant this was a pattern. It meant they really were going back. 

He waited the call out.

Bev’s words came back to him again. _ We have to go back, Stanley. We can end this. Forever. _

He had told her last night about the nightmares. Not everything of course. Not that he thought about ending it almost every time he took a sleeping pill. But he thought she might have inferred as much, from the quiver in his voice.

_ One last showdown Stan, and the nightmares will stop. It won’t be real anymore. _

He knew she was right, and he stood up, throwing a few t-shirts into an open suitcase. Silently chanting a mantra in his head, to force himself to keep moving. _ You have to go, you have to go, you have to go. _

He considered telling Patricia he’d be out of town for a few days, but he instantly knew that if he put his travel plans into words he’d chicken out. It made it too concrete. Too real. 

He closed the suitcase on his toiletries, silently, and picked up his phone to look up a plane ticket and maybe call a cab. He didn’t think he could drive right now.

One notification flashed across his phone screen: **(1) Voicemail from Unknown Number**

Hand a little shaky, he lifted the phone up to his ear and pressed play. Two words in and his knees almost gave out, a jolt of recognition traveling down his spine.

“Hey Stan, it’s me, Bill.”

***

Richie had no idea how he had made it back home. He vaguely remembered a cab, and vaguely remembered walking up the steps to his apartment, but it was fuzzy. He was sitting in the arm chair in his apartment living room, where he had been for the last several hours, and had just moments ago noticed that the sun was streaming through the window. He had not slept.

No, instead he was almost ten years back on Eddie Kaspbrak’s instagram page. 

It’s weird remembering something you hadn’t even realized you’d forgotten, because when you remember it again, nothing about you physically changes. But it feels like everything does. 

Richie found himself recognizing a hoodie in one photo, from when he had run down the hall of their high school to return it when Eddie forgot it in science class. He chuckled a little, wondering how in the hell that hoodie still fit him. 

He recognized a scar across a knuckle from another photo, from when Eddie had run his bike head first into a brick wall when he was shouting over his shoulder at a joke Richie was making. To be honest, he should have walked away with worse than just that scar.

He saw the way his mouth still crookedly picked up at the end when Eddie smiled, and Richie swore he could hear the picture on his phone tell him to “Fuck off, Trashmouth.”

God, he hadn’t heard that nickname in years.

Richie wondered how it was possible for him to look at a person and feel this way, even though he hadn’t remembered Eddie Kaspbrak existed just 24 hours ago. He wondered what it meant that he didn’t feel like he was stalking a stranger through the internet from hundreds of miles away. Instead it felt like he was thirteen again, being handed an ice cream cone at a parade and wondering if it was normal to want to kiss your best friend.

A banner notification popped down from the top of his phone screen. 

**(1) New Email from Bill Denbrough**

Richie wasn’t shocked. He had known it was coming. The fact that he remembered all this must mean they all did, and if they all remembered then Bill remembered he was the leader, and that meant he would take charge.

He didn’t even read the email. He knew what it said. He had to go home.

He got up, his knees aching from being in the same position all night, and started to shove whatever he thought he might need into a duffel bag. He had no idea how long he would be staying, but he packed enough so he wouldn’t have to worry about it for at least two weeks. Finally, when his duffel bag weighed about as much as he did, he pulled up the Uber app on his phone and stepped out the door. He could buy a ticket at the airport.

His heart was all odd and fluttery, and he couldn’t tell if it was panic about what was surely waiting for him back in Derry or anticipation about seeing the people who would face it with him. Or maybe it was because he was about to see one person in particular.

He didn’t notice, but as his shaky fingers closed out of the instagram app, before getting in the Uber, he’d accidentally double tapped a ten year old photo.

***

Beverly’s phone call with Mike had been brief but informative. She told him she’d be coming back, that yes of course she’d meet them at the restaurant at 8, and that no he didn’t have to offer up his couch, she’d make a hotel reservation.

But as she scrolled through her phone looking for a ticket, something Mike had said wouldn’t leave her mind. 

_ “We’ve gotten a hold of everyone but Stan. He won’t answer Bill’s calls.” _

Beverly pictured Stan, almost certainly by himself, the fear of what they were all remembering probably consuming him, with no one nearby to talk about it with. She hadn’t seen him in thirteen years and picturing all that fear on the face of the thirteen year old boy she remembered broke her heart. 

She thought back to their phone call last night, when Stan promised her she would see him back in Derry. He had sounded exactly the same as when they were thirteen and making a blood oath in that damn field.

Non-committal.

Solemnly, she scrolled back to the top of the airport listing page and switched her destination from Derry, ME to Atlanta, GA.

The point of taking this thing out was so it wouldn’t claim any more lives. She wasn’t going to let it kill Stan.

She grabbed her wallet and keys from the bedside table of the hotel room where she had spent the night. She’d booked the room late last night, knowing that however things went in Derry she never wanted to see Tom again, even if it meant leaving all her belongings, locked up in their shared Chicago home, behind her. As she shut the hotel room door behind her she decided she’d at least pick up some underwear to take with her for the trip.

Her flight from Chicago to Atlanta was short, about two hours, and she was able to find Stanley’s address in a yellow pages. Because, of course, practical, meticulous Stanley would have put himself in the yellow pages. About thirty minutes after she landed, she was standing on the doorstep of a very well kept house, wondering whether she should knock, or ring the doorbell. Damn, she probably should have called first.

Finally she decided on the doorbell, stepping back a little from the door once she heard the chimes ring out through the front of the house. Heavy, slow footsteps sounded soon after, and the door opened.

Beverly had to suppress a gasp when she saw him, he looked so similar to what she remembered. His hair was still light and curly, but it looked thicker and was messed over the top of his head in a style that suited him. He was so tall and still stood as straight as he had when they were kids. And his eyes. Those hadn’t changed at all. 

“Beverly?” He asked, revealing a deeper but still incredibly kind voice. She didn’t say anything back, just closed the distance between them to pull him into a tight hug. She felt him relax against her, both of their rib cages shuddering with quiet sobs.

They pulled apart, both wiping tears from their cheeks. 

“It’s been so long,” Stan started shakily, but Bev stopped him, putting her hands on both of his shoulders.

“Stanley you don’t have to come.”

“I-I what?” He stammered back, thinking back to their earlier conversation where she had been so adamant that they had to do this together. “You came all the way out here to tell me that?” His breath hitched.

“I wanted you to see me say it.” She said, pulling him a little closer. Stanley had forgotten how strong she was. “If you can’t come back-” She paused and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “If you can’t come back Stanley, I forgive you. _ They _will forgive you.”

She saw the relief flood his eyes for a second as she gave him a clear way out. But then the relief behind those quiet brown eyes was replaced by something that looked like resolve.

Stan steadied his heart beat, and his mind took him back to the lawn of the Neibolt house, as he waited outside on the grass, as all his friends went inside. Bill had seen the same fear in him that Beverly did now, and told him he could be look-out. But waiting for his friends outside was no better than accompanying them inside, especially once the screaming started. 

In fact, in most of his nightmares, he was on that lawn again. Waiting. Wondering who was still alive. Hearing their screams and not being able to do anything about it. And he knew he couldn’t do it again. That if he wanted this to stop he would have to help them.

One last deep breath, and he spoke.

“I can’t stay here if I know you’re all up there fighting it,” He said softly. “I’m coming with you.”

So it was settled. He led her inside to wait while he grabbed his bag, and let her pick the music as he drove them to the airport.

As they were boarding, he hesitated before stepping on the plane, the courage only coming back to him when Beverly gently took his hand.

“Nervous flyer?” Asked the flight attendant.

“Something like that.”

***

Ben had packed in a hurry, ignored the angry email from his boss, and driven himself to the airport as soon as the last button up shirt was zipped into his suitcase. He supposed the rush wasn’t entirely necessary as now he was sitting in the airport lobby, waiting for a flight that wouldn’t begin boarding for another three hours. 

He had gotten an email from Mike soon after he had bought his ticket and was standing in line at the airport Einsteins waiting for a bagel. It confirmed that the rest of them had remembered and were coming home too, and he laughed to himself a bit at his haste in buying a plane ticket before he even considered reaching out to the rest of them.

But, for a reason he couldn’t entirely articulate, Ben wasn’t nervous at all about returning. In fact, he was excited. Yes, with the initial influx of memories of course Pennywise had been there, along with memories of what they had done in the sewers. But almost as soon as those memories had returned they had been drowned out by the warm memories of his friends and all the reasons he loved them. 

He couldn’t wait to see them again.

As he sat on the tiny little bench in the airport, surrounded by frazzled travelers, he allowed himself to remember even more. He wondered if Eddie still wore a fanny pack everywhere he went, or if age had transitioned that phase out of his life. He wondered if Eddie had gone to college, remembering how smart he had been, even at thirteen. Ben was sure he was probably some sort of scientist, or executive. Maybe even a doctor. 

Oh, and Richie. Richie had to be some sort of entertainer, right? Ben quickly scrolled through the recesses of his mind, wondering if he had ever seen Richie in a movie and simply not realized it. He didn’t think he had. _ Well maybe _ , Ben thought to himself, _ he does stand up… or local radio. _Richie’s voice had always been his most distinctive feature, after all. 

Stan’s face swam in his mind next, as Ben reminisced about the kindest person he knew. Ben doubted that time would have changed that. Stan could have been anything really, but Ben liked to imagine that he was a teacher. It made sense as Ben remembered how Stan was always looking out for the rest of them. He made them wear shower caps so they didn’t get spiders in their hair, brought Bill playing cards because he knew Bill liked the sound it made when he tucked them into his bike spokes. He always knew how to subtly change the subject when Eddie was getting freaked out so he didn’t have a full blown panic attack, and brought Ben candy bars after school if he thought Ben still looked hungry after finishing the healthy lunch his mom had packed him for school. His wit was also able to keep up with Richie’s long after the others had given up, able to keep him distracted long enough to give the rest of them a break. 

He thought about Mike next, wondering if he still worked on the farm. The email he had gotten from his was a Derry library address, so he supposed maybe not. Briefly, he wondered why Mike had never left. 

Still thinking of the email, he began to smirk. Bill, of course, had already taken up his old forgotten role as leader it seemed. Ben picked up his bag as he reminisced, and started to make his way towards the boarding area. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Bill Denbrough’s name staring out at him from one of the gift kiosks. _ Speak of the devil. _

He walked over and picked up the book with his friend's name emblazoned on the front. So he was a writer. It made sense, Bill had always been good at keeping an audience captive, even with the stutter. He had had a sense of authority back then that made people want to listen. Looks like he had kept it.

He paid for the book, smiling at the kiosk cashier, and decided he would read it on the plane. It was with the book tucked under his arm that he stood himself at the back of the boarding line and finally allowed himself to think about the one person he was most excited to see again.

Beverly.

Soft red hair and pale skin covered in the ghosts of freckles floated through his mind. A sharp barking laugh rang in his ears. He wondered if she remembered him the same way he remembered her. 

He sat down in his plane seat after shoving his carry on into one of the overhead bins. He pulled out his phone and plugged in headphones before tucking it into his pocket, closing his eyes as a familiar song washed over him.

“Please don't go girl, I just can't live without you” 

***

Eddie woke before his wife, despite going to bed hours after she had. Panic from last night still sat at the bottom of his stomach, pulverizing his intestines, so he did what he always did once he got that jittery anxious feeling. He made himself busy.

First, he called Bill, knowing if this had happened to him it had happened to the rest of them too. Bill was surprisingly calm, which dulled Eddie's edge a little bit. He was also perfectly fine with doing the rest of the contacting, which Eddie was thankful for. There were people he wasn’t ready to face yet. As soon as they were done, he hung up the phone and put the landline back in its cradle. He didn’t call his mother back.

At Bill’s instruction, he started packing immediately, moving silently about his shared bedroom throwing stuff in a suitcase. He was used to inhabiting the same space as Myra as she slept, his late hours making him an expert at doing what he wanted without waking her up. But in his frantic dash around the room he tripped over the handle of his suitcase, landing on the hardwood with a thud. 

He heard his wife roll over. “Eddie?” Ignoring her would only make this worse.

“Yes?”

Myra sat up on the bed, looking first at her husband, who was sprawled on the floor, and then at the suitcase harboring a mountain of clothes next to him. “What are you doing?” Her voice was shrill, her mind having already put together the implications.

“I’m packing.” Eddie hauled his small frame off the floor, not looking his wife in the eye. He continued pulling clothes out of his closet.

Myra stood up, pulling the suitcase towards her and beginning to rifle through it. “You need-” She counted the pile of clothes in her hands, “sixteen pairs of underwear? How long are you going to be gone?” Her voice transitioned from shrill to angry.

“I’m not coming back.” Eddie hadn’t even realized that was his intention until he said it outloud, but of course it was. What else was the purpose of emptying his entire wardrobe into his only suitcase. Of packing all of his inhalers. Of taking his social security card, birth certificate, and all the paperwork for his car out of his box of ‘important paperwork’ and shoving it in the bottom of his bag. 

Myra blanched at his statement. “You’re _ leaving _me?” The octave of her voice began to rise as she started to shout at him, first tipping the contents of his meticulously folded suitcase onto the floor. Eddie dived for it.

“You think you could make it somewhere else without me?” She yelled, a fleck of spit shooting out from her mouth and hitting Eddie in the face. He winced. “You think someone else is going to put up with your entire host of neuroses? You think anyone else is going to protect you like I do? Do you even think you would be alive right now if it weren’t for me?”

He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t true, that he _ let _ her baby him and fuss over him and shelter him, but he didn’t _ need _it. The truth was, he didn’t know. But, he thought as he remembered the smothering environment he grew up in, only to flee to an equally smothering environment, it was worth finding out.

Eddie shoved his belongings back into his suitcase, not bothering to fold them this time. He grabbed a duffel bag and stormed to the bathroom, trying to block out her continued stream of insults and threats behind him.

“You weak, fragile, TINY MAN!” The shout rang in his ears, but he didn’t react. Instead he opened the medicine cabinet and swept the entire contents into his bag with one stroke of his arm. He zipped the bag.

“You can’t even get onto a plane, how do you expect to get away from me?” She was right. Just thinking about walking into a metal tube, full of other people who were in turn full of unknown pathogens made him want to faint. _ It’s dangerous, _ his brain told him, _ you could die. _ He pushed the thought away, as he grabbed a viral mask from inside his bedside table. He would be fine. Besides, he thought as his wife’s shouts followed him into the hallway, even death was an escape.

He grabbed his keys off the table in the hall, fingers hurriedly securing an Uber on his phone. 

“You’ll be back before the week is even over!” Myra shouted from the hall.

He shut the front door behind him, not even bothering to look back.

An hour and a half later he was 31,000 feet in the air, sitting next to someone who didn’t _ look _ infected with anything, but none-the-less wearing the viral mask across the lower half of his face. He was surprisingly calm for his situation, as if leaving Myra was the catalyst for starting to build a life that revolved around something other than fear. However, the calm could have been from the fact that there was only one thought in his brain at the moment, only one word really, blocking out everything else. 

He pulled out his phone, brought up youtube, and typed that one word into the search bar, following it with another.

_ Richie Tozier _

Videos filled the screen below his fingers. _ Richie Tozier Stand Up 2002. Richie Tozier Radio Show home recording. Comedian Bombs at Dive Bar (Compilation). _His breath hitched just staring at the thumbnails, Richie’s face recognizable even within the tiny pixelated rectangles. He moved to click one, but stopped as a banner notification flashed against the top of his phone.

**rtozier89 liked your photo.**

***

Squished between a woman who smelled strongly of onions and a child who kept kicking him in the shin, Bill Denbrough looked at his watch. Four hours left in his flight.

He pulled out his phone again for probably the fiftieth time since take off, and reopened his email. Rereading the responses to his emails, memorizing the words of his friends had been keeping him grounded for most of the flight.

Mike’s reply was lengthy, with friendly undertones seeping through his clearly worried tone. Bill had forgotten how warm Mike could make people feel.

**I almost couldn’t believe my eyes this morning. I can’t wait to see you again, Big Bill.**

Mike detailed the meet up plan at the restaurant, slipping a few anecdotes about how he was doing in between instructions. He was working at the library now, and if Bill didn’t want to make a hotel reservation, he had a pullout couch that was free.

Bill read the email again, all the way through, before clicking back out to his inbox, and clicking Richie’s predictably shorter response. 

**son of a bitch, c u tmrw i guess**

Bill smiled, comforted by the fact that even with the distance and years between them, his friends hadn’t changed all that much. He leaned his head back against the headrest and let the good memories of Derry outshadow the bad for a moment. 

After a few minutes, he drifted to sleep, shin kicking and all.

“We’ll be landing at Bangor International Airport in five minutes. Please return your trays and seats to the upright position in preparation for landing. Thank you.” The voice of the flight attendant drifting through the overhead speakers woke him up. He unreclined his seat and rebuckled his seatbelt.

The plane landed without issue and he made his way through the maze of the airport, collecting his luggage in the process. He opted for renting a car instead of calling a cab, simply because he didn’t know how long he would be staying. Plus it wouldn’t hurt to have wheels on retainer. He guessed they were a little too old now to be traveling by bike everywhere.

As he threw his luggage in the trunk of the car a ball of nerves began to form at the bottom of his stomach. The GPS showed it would take him 24 minutes to drive from the airport into Derry and park at the chinese restaurant they had agreed to meet at. 24 minutes and he’d be in the midst of his friends again. 

He drove the whole way there in silence, not wanting to fiddle with the radio stations. His palms were sweaty as he parked, and he wiped them on his jeans as he made his way through the parking lot. He didn’t know what cars to look for, so he had no idea who was here yet.

The bell on the door jingled as he stepped into the restaurant. The hostess moved to greet him but, hearing a loud peal of laughter come from the largest table in the corner, he waved her off, letting her know his friends were already here and he’d find his own way.

He drew closer, able to take them in before they noticed him approaching. They hadn’t changed very much. Even closer now, he could hear them talking.

“Jesus Christ, Eddie you don’t look a day over sixteen.” Richie joked, poking his much shorter friend in the side.

“Yeah and you don’t look a day over forty.” Eddie quipped back to Richie, able to return Richie’s jokes just as fast as he had when they were kids. Richie did indeed look pretty worn down.

Bill almost laughed at the familiarity, his eyes passing over them and seeing Beverly, who had definitely grown into her looks. He faltered for a moment when he looked at the man sitting next to her, not immediately recognizing him. But then he smiled at something she said, a familiar crinkle in the corner of his eyes. _ Oh my god, _ Bill thought, _ That’s Ben. _

Mike looked almost identical to his younger self, just taller, and broader, and a little more solid. He was shoving Richie’s shoulder, giving him a hard time about something. 

He was almost at the table now, when he took in the last person, sitting there smiling softly, arm hooked over the back of the empty chair next to him. He laughed at Mike and Richie, now in some sort of heated argument, before his eyes lazily slid over, meeting Bill’s own. 

Immediately Stan’s expression changed into something unreadable, as he pushed his chair back from the table, drawing the attention of the rest of the group. 

“Bill!”

Heads turned, six pairs of eyes finding him, then six pairs of arms as he was pulled into a group hug.

He spoke, his voice muffled by the ring of people around him. “It’s g-good to be home.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So you’re a comedian now?”

“ _ Now?  _ I’m hurt Bill.” Richie grinned in between bites of his mushu pork. “I’ve always been a comedian, I’m just currently getting paid for it.”

Eddie fake-choked on his Lo Mein. “Really? I don’t remember you being the funny one when we were growing up.”

“Oh yeah?” Richie leaned forward, taking the bait. “Which one was I then?”

“The dumb one,” Eddie, Bev, and Stan chimed in unison. 

Ben jumped to his defenses. “People change, guys. Just cause his jokes sucked as a kid doesn’t mean they do now.”

“Thank you Ben-”

“Probably cause he doesn’t write them.” Eddie rolled his eyes.

“And how would you know that, smart ass?” Richie asked, pointing an accusatory chopstick in Eddies direction. 

“Well for one you didn’t deny it. And I watched a whole thirty minute set and you didn’t tell a “Your Mom” joke once. I know for a fact you don’t have that kind of self control.”

“Eddie Kaspbrak has watched my stand up?” Richie leaned back in his chair, a smile spreading across his face as realization dawned on him. “Wait...did you internet stalk me?”

A blush crept up around Eddie’s cheeks as his eyes went wide. “Wha- Um- No!”

“You totally did!” Richie was wearing a shit-eating grin now. “Did you look up ‘Richie Tozier shirtless’? There’s some great photoshop floating around out there.”

“Yeah well you totally internet stalked me first!” Eddie stammered. “You know instagram gives you notifications for when people like one of your ten-year-old photos.” Mike let out a slow whistle as Richie’s face slowly began to match Eddie’s blush. 

“I was wrong,” Ben muttered, “Some people definitely don’t change.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Beverly eyed him up and down, “I’d say some people definitely  _ do. _ ”

“Yes!” Richie jumped at the change of subject, “Can we PLEASE talk about how hot Ben is now?”

“ _ Now?”  _ Ben mocked Richie from earlier.

“Yeah, sorry Bev,” Mike grinned, “I think Ben has dethroned you as the hot one of the group.”

“I’m just flattered you ever thought I was the hot one.” Bev laughed. “I mean you’re wrong, but I’m still flattered.”

“I’d have to disagree,” Ben leaned closer to her, before re-thinking it an awkwardly sinking back into his seat. “I mean if it wasn’t you, who was it?”

Bev didn’t miss a beat, pointing across the table. “Stan, for sure.”

Stan blinked, suddenly all eyes on him. “What?”

“I mean halo of golden curls mixed with an apathetic attitude?” Bev smiled at him. “Girls go crazy for that.”

Bill glanced at him out of the side of his eye. “Oh I definitely second that.” 

Stans heart pounded. What did that mean? “I don’t remember anybody going particularly crazy for that back then.”

“You were just ahead of your time.” Bev said.

Thankfully for Stan, the conversation quickly turned to other things. Ben talked about his architecture work until it got too technical and Richie started fake snoring. Bill talked for awhile, something about the movie rights to his first book being bought, and Mike, the only one of them who had read his book, struck up a lengthy conversation about people Bill wished he could cast, if given the choice. 

From there, individual conversations were sparked between members of the group. Ben threw himself into a conversation with Beverly about her new line. Richie noticed him glance down at her left hand, notice there was no wedding band, but then furrow his eyebrows as he took in the distinct four millimeter tan line. 

Stan was engrossed in Bill and Mikes conversation, but wasn’t contributing, which was pretty on par for him anyways. Richie leaned back in his chair, Eddie sitting silently by his side, sipping his sprite contemplatively.

“I did think you were funny, you know.”

“What?” Richie turned towards him, not sure he had heard right.

“When we were kids. I thought you were funny.” Eddie repeated himself, looking resentful that he had to say the comment again. “But you could write better stand up than you’re doing now.”

“Thanks?” Richie said, pondering the comment for a moment. “That compliment feels a little back handed.”

Eddie didn’t apologize, and instead asked “Why don’t you write your own stuff?”

“I don’t know,” Richie answered truthfully. “It’s not like I don’t have any ideas, I guess my agent’s just not ready for me to have complete creative control yet.”

“You have an agent?” Eddie asked. “I can’t imagine having to be in charge of you.”

“Ok, asshole, it’s not that much work.” Richie mumbled. “Besides, you never told me what you  _ do  _ do for a living.”

Eddie hesitated. He wasn’t exactly embarrassed about what he did for a living, but he wasn’t an upstart comedian, or an architecture mogul, or a best selling author. It seemed lame in comparison. “I run a limousine business in New York.” 

“Really?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Relax man. It’s just...not what I was expecting.” Their conversation continued, with a softness they hadn’t experienced in their earlier years, sarcastic comments replaced with genuine curiosity, if only for a little while.

“You got rid of your glasses,” Eddie remarked, almost as if he had just noticed.

“Yeah contacts seemed easier.”

“I liked the glasses.” Eddie said, hoping it sounded friendly, and not creepy. He really had liked the glasses, even if the contacts made Richie look much more grown up.

“Well, you’re in luck.” Richie said, rubbing his eyes. “They’re killing me for some reason, so I’ll probably switch back.” And he was telling the truth. His contacts had been bothering him ever since his plane landed, but he couldn’t pretend that hearing Eddie tell him he liked his glasses didn’t make his heart flutter. “And I mean,” He added, not able to stop his big mouth, “You did just tell me I looked hot in glasses.”

“That is not what I said.”

“You’re right, it’s what you wanted to say,” Richie winked.

“Every single time, you make me regret being nice. Every single time.” Eddie rolled his eyes, and Richie let the conversation topic switch to something else, wondering if it was him that had made Eddie’s cheeks red, or just the lighting.

A few more minutes into an anecdote Eddie was telling with way too much fervor, Richie noticed him absentmindedly twisting a gold ring around his left ring finger. His heartbeat stilled in shock. How had he not noticed that before?

“You’re married?” He’d said it louder than he meant to, his voice sounding a bit strangled to his own ringing ears, and it drew the attention of the rest of the group.

“Eddie Kasp-pb-pbrack got married?” Bill said, smiling like the rest of them, save Richie who was still trying to correct the look of shock on his face.

“Like, to a woman?” Richie said, not really meaning for it to be out loud.

“Yes to a woman, jackass.” Eddie snapped back, the look on his own face unreadable, but clearly defensive.

“Sorry. You make too many gay jokes as a kid you start to believe them...I guess.” Richie trailed off. It was supposed to be funny but it came out sounding... _ sad. _ Luckily no one seemed to pick up on it as Mike started asking questions about her, and Bill clapped Eddie on the shoulder in congratulations. 

Richie looked up, accidentally meeting Stan’s eyes across the table. His face held an expression that could have been pity. Or maybe understanding.

The conversation lulled after talk about Eddie’s wife. Richie hadn’t even caught her name. He felt wildly embarrassed, his face burning with shame for even hoping that they’d all be coming into Derry with no strings attached and ready to drag them back home as soon as they were done. For hoping that the end of  _ it  _ didn’t mean the end of  _ them _ .

“I guess we should talk about it then.” Richie spoke up. He supposed that if they were all going to go their separate ways after this, there was no use getting attached. Might as well just kill the thing and be over and done with it. “Why we’re here, I mean.”

“We know what you mean, Richie.” Bev spoke softly. The mood in the room had shifted, as breath stilled and eyes darted in and out of empty corners. The waitress placed the check on the table and Ben jumped. 

For a few minutes nobody spoke. Then Mike cleared his throat. “I’m not sure we should do this here.” He glanced around the restaurant, his eyes drifting over the peaceful family dinners, the awkward first dates, the tired looking staff. “We could meet at the library. It might give us a little privacy, while we… get into things.”

The rest of them agreed and began to get up. Ben pulled his coat off the back of his chair as Bev put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Stan shoved shaking hands into his pockets. Bill twirled his keys around his finger. Even Richie was quiet as they filed out of the restaurant one by one, leaving behind a sizable tip and a pile of unopened fortune cookies. 

“I took a cab here, so I’ll have to catch one back to the library.” Richie muttered as they stepped out into the parking lot.

“I can drive you.” Stan said, looking like he had something on his mind. 

Richie looped a grateful arm around his shoulders as they made their way to his rental car. “Thanks Stan the man.”

“Don’t call me that, Trashmouth.”

The library wasn’t far away. Derry was small enough that nothing was far away, actually, but the car ride was quiet, which made Richie uncomfortable. He didn’t like awkward silences. He was about to ask Stan if he had any music, but Stan spoke first. 

“I’m sorry Eddie got married, Rich.” For the first time in his life, Richie thought he would have preferred the silence. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about man.”

Stan scoffed. “Come on man. You’re not the only one who came back with certain… expectations.” He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Richie raised his eyebrows in shock.

“Bev?”

Stan narrowed his gaze as he shot Richie a look. “Bill.” The word hung in the air for a moment, but it didn’t feel as heavy as Stan had thought it would. He had seen himself in Richie’s reaction back at the restaurant and for once had decided to at least try not to be so alone anymore.

“Oh.” Richie was quiet for a moment, sneaking a glance or two at Stan, who’s eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead. “I mean he wasn’t wearing a ring. You still have a shot.”

“Audra.”

“Excuse me?”

“His girlfriend. Her name’s Audra. He’s going to cast her as the lead in his movie.”

“Oh. Well, you know hollywood relationships. They have the shelf life of a bunch of bananas.” Stan didn’t say anything but his gaze had softened at the joke. “I’m sure you could make banana bread with her by the time the week is over.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Beep beep, Richie.”

They marinated in silence for a little bit longer, eventually pulling into the library parking lot. Richie spoke again, the awkwardness catching up to him. “God, are we a couple of losers or what.”

Stan just laughed. “We always have been.”

Shutting the car off, they went inside.

***

The only light in the Derry Public Library was that of the lamps of a few research desks where the seven of them had taken up residence. The doors were locked and bolted behind them. For the last thirty minutes Mike had been detailing the results of thirteen years of research, but to the rest of them it seemed to amount to nothing.

And Mike had to agree. He didn’t know exactly what it was, except for some vague and hostile interviews with the local native tribe saying it fell from the sky a very long time ago. He didn’t know how to kill it, since their ritual hadn’t worked and he wasn’t exactly full of ideas of his own.  _ I mean hell,  _ Mike thought,  _ We don’t even have a name for it. We just call it, It.  _

The only thing he thought he knew was that it resurfaced every 27 years and it brought a whole lot of hell with it. But that couldn’t be right, because none of that had happened. No missing kids, no elevated crime, no visions. Nothing. It hadn’t even been 27 years. Not even close.

Mike had been silent for too long, just staring at the mess of research spread out before him. Thirteen years worth of work and absolutely no answers.

“I thought you said you’d been doing research on this thing for years. Shouldn’t you know something by now?” Richie’s voice rang out through the empty library.

“It’s not that easy, Rich.” Mike ignored his friend’s impatient tone. “All my research has shown that this thing resurfaces once every 27 years. And there are signs before it comes back too. Kids start going missing. Pets turn up dead. Crime rates sky rocket.”

“Ok, w-we know it hasn’t been twenty seven years,” Bill spoke, “But are you saying none of the other stuff is happening either? No missing k-kids?”

“Exactly!” Mike said, slapping the table in front of him, which was littered with newspaper clippings, diagrams, and crime reports. “It seems to be, even…. I don’t know…”

“Regressing?” Beverly spoke, picking up a news clipping that boasted the headline  **CRIME STATISTICS IN DERRY HIT A RECORD LOW. **

“Maybe?” Mike said. He shuffled some of the papers, spreading them out in a different order. “Not only have no kids gone missing in weeks, there have been no vehicle thefts, no home break ins, no reported cases of domestic violence...Nothing. It’s like it’s…”

“Backing off.” Stan finished his sentence. The more in depth Mike went, the lighter Stan’s chest seemed to get. The decreased crime, the peaceful town, the fact that they all remembered. It all seemed to form a picture that Stan was almost scared to believe in, just in case it wasn’t true. But what if, “You guys, what if it’s dead?”

They looked at each other, seemingly just as scared as he was to believe in that statement. 

“That would make sense right?” Stan continued. “Mike, you said that the plan was to call us all back once things started getting bad. But you didn’t come to us. We came to you. Even once things started to get bad, we weren’t supposed to remember. Because we left right? Why would we remember now, unless there’s nothing here to keep us from remembering anymore.”

No one spoke so he kept going. 

“And all this other stuff? The complete absence of crime? Especially in a town where the normal crime rates are astronomical for its size? That can only mean one thing, right? Right?” His voice was a little frantic, but how could it not be. This was the best possible outcome for him. Getting all of his friends back and not having to ever see that fucking clown again. Not even to kill it. 

“I can’t say that thought didn’t cross my mind.” Mike said, still sifting through his mountain of research. 

“Stan could be right.” Bev spoke up. “Last time this happened we all had… visions before It got too bad. I saw all that blood, Eddie saw that leper, Bill saw Georgie, Ben, you even saw stuff in this library, right?”

“Yeah.” Suddenly Ben’s obvious discomfort at having to have this discussion in the dimly lit building made more sense. Bev linked her fingers through his in support.

“So, I don’t know about you guys, but I haven’t seen anything like that since I got here. I think Stan might be onto something.”

“But we’ve only been here a few hours. Just because we haven’t seen anything yet, doesn’t mean that It’s dead.” Richie started. “Maybe we should give it a few more hours before we decide that.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry but supernatural beings don’t just die.” Eddie’s voice echoed off the cavernous ceiling of the near empty library. “I’m sorry Stan, I don’t want to fight it either, but there’s no fucking way.”

“But-”

“No.” Eddie was pacing now, his mouth moving faster and faster and his breath getting shallower as he talked up a storm. “Have you guys ever seen a tsunami?”

“Where the fuck would I have seen a tsunami?” Richie asked. Eddie knocked him in the shoulder.

“Like in a movie or something I don’t know. Ok just picture it. There are people on the beach, and everyone’s playing in the ocean, and it’s fun and normal.” He gasped for air in between breaths. “But then all of a sudden the ocean isn’t there any more. And you might think ‘hey that’s kind of weird’ but then you’re about to be dead because all the water got sucked away to form the giant wall of death about to crash down on your head.” 

“I-I’m not sure we g-get what you’re saying here, Eddie.” Bill put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off, waving his hands frantically.

“How do you not see it? Crime is Derry’s ocean. And the reason it’s suddenly gone isn’t because it’s dead. No, it’s hanging back until it’s at fucking tsunami strength so it can wipe us off the fucking map.” He bent over, panting. “Fuck, I can’t fucking breath.”

“Do you think that’s true?” Stan quietly asked as Richie fumbled through Eddie’s backpack looking for an inhaler. 

“I don’t know,” Mike said.

“That might explain the crime disappearing,” Richie said, one hand on Eddie’s back helping him sit up straighter as he used his inhaler. “But that doesn’t explain why we all suddenly remember everything.”

“It’s a trap.” Eddie wheezed. “It’s trying to draw us back here so it can finish us off. We defeated it last time which made it mad and now it has a vendetta and-” Richie gently pushed the inhaler back into Eddie’s mouth.

“Ok, you need to breathe before you spout off some other depressing theory and work yourself into a panic attack.” Richie turned back to the rest of them.

“When did you guys remember?”

“What?” Beverly raised an eyebrow. “A day ago, Rich, give or take a few hours just like you.”

“No, get more specific. When exactly?”

Ben thought back to his late night meeting with his boss. “I don’t know if I could tell you exactly, but probably around 2:15? 2:30?”

“Yeah me too, I had just finished a set.” Richie rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Now Mike, you didn’t have to remember so we’re skipping you. Bill?”

He tried to remember what time the clock read as he woke up from his nightmare. “2:15 sounds about right.”

“Bev? Stan?”

They both nodded. “About the same.”

“Alright spaghetti man. When’d you remember?” The nickname pulled a small smile out of Eds as he forced himself to breathe slower.  _ Inhale. Exhale. _

“2:30. I think. I had just gotten home from work.”

“What are you getting at here, Richie?” Mike said.

“What, you don’t think it’s weird that we all remembered at the exact same time? There must have been some sort of trigger. Something that happened that night at 2:30 that made us all remember.”

“That doesn’t exactly prove either theory.” Stan said hesitantly.

“Well that’s because we don’t know what the trigger is. Or, or-” Richie said, still spitballing ideas as his mind reeled. “Maybe it didn’t just die. Maybe at 2:15 that night somebody else killed it.”

“Who would even know it’s down there, besides us?” Ben wondered aloud.

“And how are we supposed to figure out what really happened a night ago at 2:30?” Stan asked.

Richie wrinkled his nose in frustration. “That’s where I was hoping someone else would take over. I don’t know.”

“Stan, you said it before this is a small town. If something happened in the middle of the night, someone’s bound to have heard it. Maybe the police would have talked about it over their radio thingies. Like on the police scanner?” Bev had her knees tucked up to her chest, the way she always sat when she was thinking hard.

“You might be right, but how are we supposed to get our hands on a police scanner interaction from over 24 hours ago.”

Suddenly Richie sat up straighter. “Archives.” When all that got him were confused looks, he kept going. “I work for a local radio station back home and we archive everything we put on the air. I’m guessing police stations have stricter documentation than a local radio station. If we can just get into the archives we can check around that time and see if anything was reported.”

“Y-yeah ok. How are we sup-p-posed to get them though.”

Mike groaned. “I hate pulling favors, but I may have an in. I dated one of the officers for a while.”

“I hope you ended on good terms, my man. Does that sound like a plan to everyone?” Richie clapped Mike on the back.

The others thought about it briefly. It did seem to be a good start. Stan could agree without admitting that there was a part of him that believed maybe it wasn’t dead. Eddie could agree without admitting that he felt like it definitely was still alive. And it was just a starting point. A toe in the water before they cannonballed back into the sewers. 

“Y-yeah that sounds like a plan.” Bill spoke for all of them. 

They didn’t think 10:45 was an appropriate time for them to go barging into a police station asking for favors so they agreed to meet in the morning for breakfast and go from there. They had also decided to be upfront about any terrifying visions they may or may not begin to see. No secret keeping this time around.

The relatively sleepless night most of them had had last night meant they were eager to get to sleep, so Mike retired to his place above the library. Ben headed home since he had decided to skip the hotel fee and stay with his parents, and the rest of them made their way back to their hotel reservations. 

Bill, Stan, and Bev were on the third floor, while Richie and Eddie were on the fourth. They said goodbye to the other three and made their way up the extra flight of stairs. 

“Richest bastard out of all of us, and he’s the one getting free room and board,” Richie joked, referring to Ben.

“You could have slept on Mike’s couch if you wanted, cheapskate,” Eddie shot back.

“Aw but then I wouldn’t get to wake up to your grumpy face in the morning.” Richie said, pinching Eddie’s cheek. 

“I’m not grumpy.”

“Yeah somehow it’s not as convincing when you say it with a scowl.”

They reached their rooms, directly across the hall from one another. The conversation awkwardly tapered off as they both slipped their keys into the respective locks. Richie was about to step inside when Eddie said something over his shoulder.

“Hey, Richie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calming me down earlier.”

Richie blinked. He had been worried he may have crossed a line earlier with the inhaler. His thirteen year old self had taken over, as back then he always seemed to be the one fishing Eddie’s inhaler out of his fanny pack, but it had felt weird to do it after so many years. Like it was a little too intimate. Although, he guessed, Eddie was probably just grateful for the familiarity.

“No problem. Goodnight Eds.”

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie said as he shut the door behind him.

Yeah, Richie thought as he went inside himself, sometimes familiarity was nice.


	4. Chapter 4

Sitting alone in his hotel room, Stan looked at his phone again. He had six missed text messages from Patty and two missed calls. 

**9:30 AM: Hey wanna get lunch today?**

**9:45 AM: I need to know soon so I can reschedule my lunch meeting.**

**10:00 AM: Babe?**

**4:30 PM: Hey r u ok? This radio silence is freaking me out**

**6:00 PM: Stan!?**

**7:30 PM: Missed Call**

**7:35 PM: Missed Call**

**9:00 PM: U kno if we r having a fight u need to let me know**

He sighed and shut his phone off again. The clock on the hotel bedside table blinked 11:15. She’d probably still be awake. 

Stan knew he needed to call her back, text her, do something so she at least knew he was still alive. He just didn’t know what he would say once he got in touch with her. A voice deep inside him was yelling  _ break up with her, she doesn’t deserve this _ , but even though he knew she could do better, breaking up with her from a different state with no justification just didn’t feel fair. 

None of this felt fair actually, Stan thought as he leaned back against the crappy hotel headboard and rubbed his temples. It wasn’t fair that he had to fly all the way up here just for the chance to die in a sewer at the hands of a murderous clown. It wasn’t fair that he had to face his childhood crush after thirteen years and listen to him ramble about his perfect girlfriend as he came to terms with the fact that his feelings for Bill were still there. And it definitely wasn’t fair that he was enjoying reuniting with his friends and that if he didn’t die in the sewers this week he knew he wanted it to  _ stay _ this way. Because his life before now felt like an interlude, just a means to an end until he got to see his friends again, and he didn’t want to go back to it. 

He got off the bed. Fair or not, he knew he’d rather have Patty hate his guts for breaking up with her for no apparent reason than wake up a few days later with his face and obituary on national television. He pulled at the collar of his shirt. The hotel room suddenly seemed stifling. 

He needed some air. He unlocked the door to his room and stepped out into the hallway. There was a balcony at the end of the hall, and he started making his way there. Maybe this phone call would be easier in fresh air. 

Stan slid the door open, and stepped out into the brisk air.

“Cigarette?”

“Aggh!!” Stan pressed his back against the wall, heart pounding, but it was only Bev, sitting on the balcony ledge, lit cigarette balanced between two of her fingers. He sighed, calming his heart rate. “Sorry, I’m a little on edge. But no thanks.”

Bev smiled and hopped down, moving closer to him. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” He held up his phone. “I was gonna make a phone call.”

“Loose ends to tie up at home?” She smiled.

“I was…” Stan wrinkled his nose. “I was gonna break up with my girlfriend.”

“Over phone? Stanley, you monster.” Her words were harsh but her tone indicated she was just giving him a hard time.

“Well, I figure it’s better than her finding out I’m dead from the news.”

“Oh.” The mood shifted, and suddenly the wind felt colder. She grabbed his hand. “We’re not gonna die, Stan.”

“I hope you’re right.” He crossed his arms, tucking his phone into the crook of his elbow, and bracing himself against the cool breeze floating across the balcony.

Bev put her cigarette out on the railing, and drew closer to him. “Do you need help thinking of what to say?” Stan appreciated the genuine offer of help, instead of prying questions as to why he felt the need to break up with his girlfriend one day into going back home. 

“I- uh, no that’s ok.” He wrinkled his nose. “I can handle it… I think.”

Bev just chuckled, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, leaning them both back against the railing of the balcony. “Hey do you remember the clubhouse we had in the barrens?” She spoke softly, looking out over the street, in what they both knew was the direction of the aforementioned hang out. 

“Yeah, of course.” Stan said, leaning into her embrace. Then, realizing he hadn’t remembered it as recent as yesterday, added, “Well, I mean now I do.”

“And remember those shower caps you used to make us wear?” Bev laughed at the image the memory brought back. “So we wouldn’t get spiders in our hair?”

Stan blushed, bringing a hand up to his face. “Oh my god, yeah.”

“What did Richie use to call you?” She smiled. “Worlds-”

“Tiniest adult,” Stan finished for her, laughing.

“Haha that was it.”Bev squeezed his shoulder. “Even though he would have been lost without you, and he knew it. You were the only one who knew how to put those tiny screws back in his glasses every time he broke them.”

“Yeah, I’m guessing I’ll have to do that again at least once before this nightmare vacation is over.”

Bev kept going. “And remember how you used to bring Bill lunch to school because sometimes his parents forgot to pack him one and the only thing he knew how to make was mayonnaise and potato chip sandwiches.”

“He was gonna get scurvy if I didn’t intervene.”

“And remember how you used to tell Ben when you knew Bowers was loitering outside after school, and wait with him in the library till he was gone.”

“Yeah but I talked his ear off about my bird books the whole time. Bowers would have been less punishment, probably.”

Bev laughed, and put her free arm on the other side of his shoulders, turning him to face her. “And you bought me my first lighter, after I lost the one I stole from my dad, even though I know you hated that I smoked.”

“Yeah…”

“I’m just saying Stan, you were always looking out for us.” She smiled and tapped the phone he was still holding with one manicured nail. “And you know, we’d look out for you too, if you’d let us.”

For a brief moment, Stan was stunned into silence. He knew he’d always checked all the boxes for ‘mom friend’ but he’d always figured his friends had found it overbearing, or in the very best case scenarios, simply tolerated it. He didn’t think he’d ever considered the possibility that they might have appreciated it. Still speechless, he pulled Bev into a hug.

“Thanks Bev.” He mumbled awkwardly into her shoulder before pulling back. “I think the pep talk was help enough for now.” Holding up his phone, he continued, “But I better get this over with.”

Giving her hand a final squeeze he backed into the hallway, giving himself at least a shred of privacy behind the glass sliding door of the balcony. 

Even though his phone screened showed it was almost midnight, Patty was still awake and the call was quick. She was angry of course, but there was a thread of understanding running through her words, almost like she had expected it. It made Stan feel worse. But she wished him well, and said she didn’t think they should speak any more, even as friends. Stan agreed that was probably for the best, before hanging up, taking a deep breath, and stepping back outside.

“Wanna talk about it?” Bev asked.

“No,” He shook his head. “Bev it’s been thirteen years. I want to hear about you.”

***

Even though he knew he had to be up early to go barging into a police station with the others, and even though he knew he didn’t function well on anything less than the prescribed eight hours of sleep, Richie was sat straight up in his bed, blanket pulled all the way up to his chin, staring with bloodshot eyes at the wall. 

He really wished Bev hadn’t mentioned anything about visions. Because even at 27, the thought of seeing anything like what he had seen as a kid sent chills through his spine. He ran through his mental list again.

_ Paul Bunyan Statue _ . Nope, the park was a mile from here, and if that fucking clown sent that statue after him again, he would at least hear the ground shaking from those two ton footsteps, right?

_ Teenage Werewolf _ . His eyes swept across the room. No giant paws behind the curtains. No growling from the bathroom. No varsity jacket with his name on it. Despite his shaking hands, he laughed. As if he could make varsity for any sport.

_ Weird doll of himself rotting in a coffin. _ Nope. His hotel room didn’t seem like an appropriate spot for that charade anyways. If there was anything Pennywise was good at it was keeping the ambiance consistent. And yeah, tacky floral curtains and framed stock photos just didn’t give off the same vibes as Neibolt had. 

Of course, he had had to be lured to that attraction. His heart stilled as he thought of how Pennywise had done it, and how easy it would be to fall for that again. Because all it took was one word, a frantic tone and he knew he’d go running towards that voice again.

**KNOCK KNOCK**

Richie jumped. His chest grew cold at the sound and he closed his eyes. If he wasn’t afraid of it, it couldn’t hurt him, right? That was the trick wasn’t it? 

**KNOCK KNOCK**

It was louder this time. He’d be ok, he thought to himself as he stood up, inching closer and closer to the door. It was probably just-

“Eddie?” Opening the door revealed Eddie Kaspbrak, standing there in a large t-shirt and boxers, hair messed up and eyes wild. 

“Yeah it’s me.” His gaze bounced up and down the hallway. “I know this is fucking weird but could I stay in your room tonight. Bev freaked me out with the vision stuff and I think if I’m by myself and see that fucking leper again I’ll launch myself out my fucking fourth floor window.” His words tumbled out in one breath.

Richie stood there a moment, digesting the image in front of him. Eddie had been a lot of things with him when he was a kid, but vulnerable was never one of those things. In fact, he thought, vulnerable was one of the things Richie  _ wished _ Eddie had been with him. His heart stilled, as he studied his face, realization hitting him.  _ This _ was his vision. Pennywise knew he’d do anything for the guy and was just waiting until Richie let him into his room, so he could make Richie watch Eddie’s face melt, or jaw unhinge, or spiders crawl out of his ears or something.

Because that was what Pennywise did. He made Richie think he was getting what he wanted before he ripped it away at the last second, and mocked him for wanting it in the first place.

“Listen fuckwad,” Eddie’s voice snapped Richie back to the present, “I know this isn’t ideal. I’m the one not using the hotel room that I fucking paid for because I’m scared of the fucking dark.”

Richie kept staring. His face wasn’t melting yet and, he thought to himself, Eddie was pretty hard to replicate. What other twenty seven year old used the word fuck like a seven year old boy who had just learned it existed. Even Pennywise couldn’t slip that many f-bombs into one sentence.

“It’s just one night Richie,” Eddie said staring up at him. “ _ Please. _ ”

And against what felt like his better judgement, Richie relented. “Yeah man, sure, ok.” He stepped aside, and Eddie bounded past him and immediately slipped into the bed.

At Richie’s raised eyebrow he barked, “I’m not sleeping on the fucking floor and you only have the one bed.”

“Yeah well it’s my room so I’m not sleeping on the floor either.” Richie got into the other side of the bed even though his legs were numb and he was pretty sure Eddie could see his hands shaking.

“If you tell anyone about this I’ll kill you.”

“It’s fine Eds, I’m used to sleeping with Kaspbraks. Although usually it’s your mom.” Eddie whacked him in the nose with a pillow as soon as he finished the sentence.  _ Yeah, _ Richie thought to himself as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, _ I think this is the real Eddie. _

For some reason, that realization made him even more nervous. 

They were quiet for a while as they both presumably tried to sleep. Richie lay on his side, facing the wall, watching the clock pass 12:30, then 1:00, then 2:00. At 2:06 a foot jammed itself into his back.

“Are you still awake?” Even as a whisper, Eddie’s words cut through the silence like a knife. 

“I am now,” Richie shot back, even though he hadn’t been sleeping previously.

“I can’t sleep.”

“No shit.” Richie sat up and turned to face him, running a hand through his own messed up hair. “What do you want me to do about it.”

“I don’t know.” Eddie admitted honestly. He looked like he regretted saying anything.

Richie sighed. He was exhausted but it didn’t look like sleep was coming anytime soon. “We could talk if you wanted?”

“What are we, teenage girls at a slumber party?”

“Or, you know I could send you back to your own room to suffer through this alone.”

“Fine, fine, talking sounds great.” Eddie glared at him. Richie felt like they both knew he wouldn’t have sent him back.

“Alright then. Does your wife know you knock on strange men’s hotel room doors and ask to sleep in their bed in the middle of the night?”

“You’ve already made me regret this Tozier.”

Richie cracked a goofy smile and risked a glance down at Eddie’s left hand. But he pulled his eyes immediately back up to his face, surprised. “Does she know you sleep without your wedding ring on?”

Eddie didn’t answer immediately, but he did take his hand and shove it back under the covers.  _ Shit,  _ Richie thought,  _ Not even ten seconds in and you blew it. _ The atmosphere was tense.

“Yeah about that… I kind of... left her.” Eddie’s voice sounded different. 

“Oh shit, I’m really sorry if I crossed a line-”

“No, no it’s fine, it’s just recent.” He paused, not meeting Richie’s eyes. “But I think it was the right decision.” Richie didn’t feel like it was a good idea to pry, but there was so much weight behind that last sentence that it made his heart hurt.

“Why did you tell everyone all that stuff about her then?”

“Seemed like a depressing thing to bring up on the first night.”

“I don’t think any of us are gonna look back on this vacation and think cheery thoughts.” Richie said, trying to sound comforting.

Eddie laughed through his nose. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Silence surrounded them once more, but it felt more comfortable this time. Even so, Eddie broke it moments later.

“I’m sorry, for barging in here like this.”

“No, no you’re fine, I would have let you in sooner, but-” Richie stopped.

“But, what?”

“Well, I kind of thought  _ you _ were my vision.”

Eddie furrowed his brow, and shot a sideways glance at his friend. “Why the fuck would  _ I  _ be your vision?” And immediately Richie regretted the admission, just like he regretted touching Henry Bower’s cousin’s hand at that arcade game all those years ago, and that friend he had kissed in college because he thought he was getting signals, and-

“Yeah weird, right?” He mumbled. “I think I’m just paranoid.”

The rest of the night found them finally slipping into a fitful sleep, and ended with legs tangled together, and arms across chests, and breath passing softly against necks. It was Eddie who turned off the alarm and pulled himself out of bed first, as Richie pretended he hadn’t woken up ten minutes earlier.

***

Stan woke up earlier than he had planned, but it made sense considering it had been a weird night. His conversation with Bev had lasted longer than they’d both anticipated but despite the few hours of sleep he had gotten, he felt very awake. His mind was racing with the possibility of what might happen today. 

He got dressed silently, rubbing at the bags under his eyes as he brushed his teeth. He brushed his hair, and dug out matching socks from his suitcase before slipping them on and toeing on his shoes. 

No one was in the hotel lobby when he got there, but it was still early so he figured he’d make his way over to the diner, and get a table while he waited for everyone else to wake up. 

Surprisingly, early riser as he was, he wasn’t the first one there. As he stepped into the place, the tinkling bell of the door drew Bill’s eyes, and he waved him over from the table he had already secured. 

“Hey m-man.” Bill greeted him as Stan slid into the chair across from him.

“You’re up early,” was all Stan said back.

“I d-don’t think I slept at- at- at all, to b-be honest.” Stan wondered if it was the exhaustion that was making Bill’s stutter worse. He watched him take a sip of his black coffee and grimace.

A waitress interrupted them, clicking a pen open against her hip before setting the tip down on her notepad. “Can I get you started with a drink, sir?”

“Yeah,” Stan threw a quick glance at the menu before looking back up at her. “Coffee’s fine, thanks.”

She wrote it down and Bill stopped her before she could get away, raising a finger. “Y-yeah, and could I g-get a sp-sp-sp-” The consonants stuck in the back of his throat, making him blush, whether from the effort or embarrassment, Stan didn’t know. Bill gulped back a breath and tried again, “Sp-sp-.... S-sorry a sp-sp-”

Stan’s own face burned from the embarrassment. A few more stutters later and it was almost unbearable. “Could he get a sprite?” He asked, just trying to end the pitiful display.

Bill stopped and gave the waitress a small embarrassed nod, and she wrote the order down. Her footsteps faded quickly as she strode across the empty diner to retrieve their drinks.

Stan smiled sheepishly at Bill, hoping his gesture had indicated support and not impatience.

Bill smiled back. “I was actually try- trying to say sp-splenda.” The word finally tumbled out of his mouth and Stan’s eyes widened in embarrassment, as he took in the empty sugar container and remembered Bill’s grimace at his sip of coffee earlier. 

“Oh my god,” Stan’s cheeks were burning.  _ That was so insensitive, _ he thought to himself. “I am so so sorry.”

But Bill was laughing light heartedly. “It’s fine, I ap-p-preciate the gesture.” Stan noticed that Bill’s infectious laugh calmed his stutter a bit just like it had when they were kids.

“God, that must have made me seem like an asshole.”

“No it was s-sweet.” Bill wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “I th-thought I had kicked it, b-b-but coming b-back here b-brought it ba-back.” His cheeks were burning again. “H-honestly it’s embarrassing.”

Stan didn’t know what to say so he offered him a smile and a “We don’t mind, Bill. We never have.” And of course when the waitress returned with their drinks Stan asked for several splenda. 

Richie and Eddie, to both Stan and Bill’s surprise, were the next to arrive, despite the fact that neither of them had been on time to a single event when they were kids. Still, Stan gave Richie a smile when he saw them walk in together and Richie returned it as he took in Stan’s own seating arrangement. 

Bev got there next, and thanked them all sarcastically for waiting for her in the hotel lobby. Ben walked in after her, looking a little disheveled. Apparently his parents had turned his old bedroom into a home office, and the couch wasn’t quite as comfortable as he remembered it.

Mike was last.

The beginning of breakfast was loud, and not at all pertaining to the later events of the day. Thankfully, no one had seen any clown induced visions, so the conversation consisted of lighthearted laughter and telling Richie to shut up. 

Currently, Richie was trying to steal a piece of Eddie’s bacon while Eddie was attempting to stab him with a fork.

“If you wanted bacon, you should have ordered your own.”

“I only like other people’s bacon, it’s not as good without the chase.”

“Richie oh my god,” Bev threw a piece of her own bacon at him, laughing as it bounced off his glasses, which had replaced his contacts from yesterday. “Let the poor guy eat in peace.”

Richie relented and grabbed the offering off the table, making a show of crunching it very loudly.

But eventually, their loud and busy table quieted down as they realized they did actually have to talk about their plans for the day. 

“We should be able to walk to the police station from here.” Mike said, “So no use splitting up into a bunch of different cars again.”

“Do you think they’ll actually let us look at the archives?” Richie asked.

“I’m honestly not sure. I don’t think it’s in our best interest to lead with our true motives if I’m being honest,” Mike admitted.

“You mean, ‘We suspect a killer clown might be dead in your sewers’ isn’t the opening line you were planning on using?” Richie quipped.

“Beep Beep, Richie.” Eddie said quietly from beside him.

“How about we tell them it’s for your research?” Bev suggested. “Your...uh… connection would know about that, wouldn’t she?”

“Yeah, he would.” Mike responded. If anyone noticed the pronoun change, they didn’t say anything. “Actually that could work. Although I’d need an excuse as to why I’m bringing a bunch of people with me. I usually work alone.”

“Ok Mr. Incredible.” Richie said. “Just say we’re interns.”

“We’re all the same age.” Ben dismissed the idea. “We could be fellow historical researchers? Do they do like get togethers, or conventions or whatever?”

“I d-don’t know.” Bill spoke up. “If we m-made up a b-bunch of facts about the convention it might b-be b-b-believable.”

So they sat there, most of them finishing off the last of their coffee, Bill finishing off the last of his sprite, and came up with a wildly intricate back story for the ‘Small Town Historical Researchers Society’ and each of the small towns they themselves would represent. 

By the time they made it to the police station they each felt they could have won Oscars for their prepared performances. 

Mikes ‘connection’ was very friendly and seemed genuinely happy to see Mike, albeit a little confused by his entourage. He seemed to swallow their alibi easily enough, even listening well enough to make small talk on the way to the archive room.

“So which towns did you say you were from again?” 

The listed off their towns one at a time, Richie’s answer causing a flicker of recognition to spark in the officer’s eyes.

“Hawkins, Indiana, huh?” He said. “Hey, I have a cousin who lives there. You know of Jim Hopper?”

They all froze, watching Richie and waiting for his bullshit backstory to kick in.

“No, but you know, it’s a big town.”

“A big town in the Small Town Historical Researchers Society?” The officer looked skeptical, his hand frozen on the archive room door handle.

Richie blanched at his mistake, quickly trying to correct it. “You know, big for a small town. We, uh, barely made the cut.”

“Oh.” The group let out a breath as the officer seemed to accept Richie’s response. “Well if you ever run into him, tell him I say hello. He doesn’t call nearly enough.” 

With that, he let them inside, letting them know he’d be back for them in about thirty minutes, and pointing out the security cameras in all four corners of the room. 

He slipped back out, waving to Mike as he went and shutting the door. 

“Alright, we made it.” They all looked at Richie and he gave them a sheepish grin. “Let’s get to work.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its def been a while, sorry. i am planning on finishing this though

Richie’s snort echoed throughout the dimly lit room as he held up an archive tape for the rest of them to see. “This one says ass.”

Stan snatched it out of his hands, reading the label.  **Ass. Lt. Johnson Response 10-32** . He rolled his eyes at the unfortunate abbreviation and handed the tape back to Richie. “That means assistant, you dumbass.”

“So I’m your dumb assistant?” Richie feigned ignorance.

“No you’ve been fired.” Stan deadpanned back. “Now you’re just dumb.”

“Can we focus please?” Mike asked from across the room. He and Bill were scanning the rows looking for the date they needed. Ben and Eddie went over to help them, while Bev and Richie giggled because they found tapes of an officer with the last name ‘Pecker’. Stan was too busy rolling his eyes to help.

Eventually Bill, Mike, and Ben found the appropriate date and time and decided to skim through an hours worth of recordings around 2:15, to listen for anything suspicious. Bev and Richie were still being no help, now pulling random tapes off the shelves and matching the police codes to the cipher on the wall to see what they were. 

Eddie and Stan were putting the tapes back as fast as they could pull them down. “Oh my GOD, Richie you’re going to mess up their filing system.”

Richie ignored Eddie’s frantic muttering as he and Bev scanned the cipher for the answer to their next code. 

“11-85!” Bev pointed a finger at the poster triumphantly. “Tow truck required.”

“Ha-” Richie looked over his shoulder at Eddie, “Was your mom sitting in the street again?”

Eddie glared, launching a tirade of insults at him, while Stan laughed behind him. “Richie, that doesn’t even make any sense.”

While they were arguing about the logistics of Richies particularly awful your mom joke, Mike suddenly trapped both Stan and Eddie's shoulders under his hands. “Ok folks, Bill can’t hear anything over your incessant bickering, so you’re getting banished to the hallway.”

He steered the four of them gently outside, ignoring Stan's bitterness at being lumped in with the hooligans when he ‘wasn’t even doing anything, Mike, geez’ and shut the door firmly behind. “I’ll come get you if we find anything,” his muffled voice said from behind the closed door.

Silence held in the hallway for all of about two seconds before they all started laughing. 

Sliding down the wall and spreading his lanky legs across the hallway, Richie wiped a tear out of the corner of his eye before offering up an apology. “Sorry we got you in trouble Stan the Man.”

Stan rolled his eyes, sinking to the floor beside him. “Honestly, you think I’d be used to it by now.” Nobody mentions the fact that he had fourteen years to get un-used to it.

Soon they’re making the same level of noise that got them kicked out of the archive room, Richie teasing Stan as Bev and Eddie watched, Bev’s arm nestled comfortably around his neck. 

Eddie let himself relax against her, playing with the hand hanging off his shoulder, blue painted nails set into nimble fingers. A strip of pale skin circled her ring finger, matching the same tan line on his own.

“You took your wedding ring off.” Bev’s voice was quiet, starting a conversation with just Eddie, no longer watching the private Richie Tozier stand up performance happening next to them, leaving him to continue getting heckled by Stanley. 

Eddie gulped. “Yeah. I never should have bought it to be honest.” The admission sounded mean and he winced as he said it. Bev did too, her brows furrowed. “That sounded terrible.”

“A little bit.” But even so Bev linked their fingers together. “But you’re allowed to leave things behind. You’re allowed to want something better.” Her words sounded more to herself than to Eddie.

Eddie laughed, just a cynical puff of air bursting out of his lungs before he could stop it. “I don’t know, I just feel like if thirteen year old me could face down a killer clown, I’d be brave enough to-” his eyes wandered over to Richie, “to stop running away.”

Bev leaned her head onto his shoulder, her flyaway hairs tickling Eddie’s ear. He could feel her heartbeat in his collar bone, quickening as she pondered something. Her eye’s followed Eddie’s from before, and she smiled as she watched Stan swat Richie for some offhand comment. “Are we running away though?” Her grip tightened around his hand for just a second. “Or are we just coming home?”

“You know, I’m starting to see why you don’t write your own jokes.” Stan’s voice carried out through the hallway. An officer passed them, barely pausing enough to give them a questioning look before continuing off down the hallway. 

“You wound me, Stanley.”

“I just don’t understand how you found someone to pay you to be an asshole for twenty minute increments.” His tone was biting but there was a smile behind his eyes. In all honestly he had forgotten how much fun it was to argue with Richie. 

“Jokes on you man, I rarely get paid.”

Stan laughed, before catching the frustration in Richie’s eyes. “Oh seriously man? That’s kind of sad.”

“Eh the entertainment business is brutal. It would probably hurt if I cared more.”

Stan knew he was trying to be funny, but he could tell Richie was a little hurt by it. He’d always had a habit of pretending he didn’t care enough for anything to hurt him and Stan could relate. Pretending was always easier than dealing with whatever you were actually feeling. 

Stan bit the inside of his lip. He didn’t have to pretend, he reminded himself. There was no point in coming all the way to Maine if it wasn’t going to  _ change _ anything. He did care about his friends and he already wouldn’t be going back to his old life after this was over. 

And it  _ was _ going to be over, he reminded himself. Either It was already dead or it would be soon, and he’d try as hard as humanly possible to forget It but he wasn’t going to forget his friends again. 

“Hey,” He said as he slipped his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone, “wanna give me your number?” Stan offered the phone out to Richie who’s eyes widened a bit in shock. 

Richie fluttered his eyelashes and fanned his face. “Wow, I’m flattered-”

“Don’t be an asshole about it.” Stan dropped the phone into Richie’s open palm, the New Contact page lit up on the screen. “I just… don’t want to go back to not talking if we end up surviving this mission.”

“Ooh are we giving out phone numbers?” Bev spoke up from beside them, using her free hand to dig out her own phone. Soon the noise level in the hallway had died down to only the tapping of buttons. 

Richie held on to Eddie’s phone tightly, staring at his own name entered into the contact line, and trying to still the teenage fluttering of his heart at the thought of Eddie Kaspbrak’s number going into his phone.

“Gimme my phone back, your name doesn’t have  _ that _ many letters in it.” Eddie made a swipe for his phone but Richie held it high above his head.

“Stop it, I’m trying to nail the perfect emoji combination” Richie lied, trying to hide the fact that he had just been staring at the screen and hadn’t even entered his number yet. “I’m thinking cake, star, eye emoji, and then blushing face with hearts.”

“Absolutely not, that doesn’t even mean anything.”

“Oh it definitely means something.”

“What 27 year old uses emojis anyways?” Eddie rolled his eyes, still reaching for his phone back and ignoring Richie’s comments about how he didn’t know you could outgrow fun. 

Richie had stood up so he could continue typing without the risk of phone-capture. He finished typing in his ridiculously long emoji string as well as his number and handed the phone back to a fuming Eddie. Then he watched him delete all the emojis except for the cake one, and slip the phone back in his pocket. 

“At least you kept the cake emoji,” he quipped as he sank back to his spot on the floor. “It’s cause I’m a snack, right?”

Eddie pulled his phone back out and deleted that one too.

***

The atmosphere inside the archive room wasn’t so lighthearted once comedy hour was moved to the hallway. Ben, Bill, and Mike huddled around the tape player, listening to the voices of Derry’s finest cut in and out of the static. 

“10-52 on Johnson Street.” The voice of the dispatcher was tinny, tinged with the electrical crackling of static. Ben quickly scanned the code chart laid out on the table in front of them.

“Officer Smith responding,” came the response.

“That’s just a parking violation.” Ben said, his voice cutting through the tension in the air. They kept listening. 

“I’m getting reports of a 10-42 down at Kenduskeag lane. Possible 10-31.” The dispatcher’s voice was barely audible. 

“Repeat back, was that a 10-31?” An officer responded.

“What’s a 10-31?” Bill whispered as Ben frantically read down the code list, Mike looking over his shoulder.

“Uh- crime in progress? 10-42 is an animal complaint.”

The dispatcher answered the officers previous question and they quieted to listen. “Affirmative, along with a 10-42. Locals called complaining of screaming in the woods.”

Mike leaned closer to the tape deck and pressed the rewind arrow. 

“H-hey-” Bill stuttered, but Mike held up a finger. The dispatcher’s voice replayed.

“I’m getting reports of a 10-42 down at Kenduskeag lane-” Mike pressed pause, cutting off the tail end of the sentence.

“Kenduskeag lane. Thats-”

“The barrens,” Ben finished for him. “What time is this?”

Bill ejected the tape to look at the label on the top. “2:00-3:00. But we’ve b-been listening for a while so I’d say m-maybe 2:30?” He pushed the tape back in and pressed play. “Let’s see if they say anything else.”

Mike crossed the archive room to open the door. The squeak of the hinges cut off the laughter coming from the hallway, and soon Beverly, Eddie, Richie, and Stan were scrambling solemn-faced back into the room to listen with them. Ben quietly explained the code meanings as they waited for the responding officer to call back.

The static seemed to fill the room, getting louder with every passing second. When the officer finally responded back, Eddie jumped, standing so close to Richie that his shoulder jabbed him in the ribs. For once, Richie didn’t say anything. 

“10-42 resolved. Cancel that 10-31.”

The dispatcher’s voice sounds quickly after. “Did you need animal control?”

“Negative. Just some kids playing in the woods.” The entire group stopped breathing.

“At this hour?”

“Don’t worry, I sent them home. They were carrying on quite a bit. Like they had won a fight or something.”

Mike pressed pause again, looking over his shoulder at the rest of them. “Well?”

He was met with six worried faces. 

“Do you think they killed it?” Stan’s voice was hoarse, barely loud enough to break the silence. Five pairs of shoulders tensed up beside him. Nobody seemed to know what to say, speculation still feeling dangerous. 

Finally Eddie spoke. “It kind of… sounds like it?”

“Really? Captain of the ‘We’re All Gonna Die’ team is on my side?” Stan asked, referencing Eddie’s earlier meltdown. Richie shot him a look. 

“I mean, do you think we would have been described as just playing in the woods if we had been found by the police crawling out of the sewers?” Eddie’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “We may have won that fight but we sure didn’t look like it. Maybe these kids were better prepared.”

Bill bit his lip. Eddie caught his eye for a second, his shoulders slouch in defeat. Stan looked like he was going to be sick. 

“You want to go look for It anyways don’t you?” Eddie’s voice was small, but resigned. He took a fraction of a step back, his shoulder blades connecting with Richie’s rib cage. 

“We have to, d-don’t we?” Bill had that look in his eyes again, the Braveheart look as Richie used to call it. A good indication that a monologue was going to follow. “We m-made a p-promise. And until we can be sure that It is actually d-dead, we’re still responsible for whatever’s down in that sewer. N-no one else is dying in that shit hole-” his voice wavered, but he pressed on. “No one else.”

“Fine.” Stan said, eyeing the poster on the wall of the archive room detailing gun safety. “But I’m not going in unarmed.”

Bev followed his eye line. “We’re not buying you a gun Stanley.”

“I’d settle for a large stick honestly. Anything swingable.”

Their exit from the police station was hasty. It was much later in the afternoon and Stan and Eddie had both threatened to leave the rest of them in the sewer if they didn’t make it there before nightfall. The inventory of the local pawn shop was made two baseball bats lighter, and then they were all crammed in the back of Bill’s rental, headed in a direction they had pedaled a million times before.

It was quiet, heads all facing forward, the radio off. Richie could hear Eddie’s shallow breaths beside him, and could almost hear the pep talk he was giving himself in his head. He’d never been great at consolations, and now probably wasn’t the best time for a joke, but the atmosphere in the car was so tense he felt like  _ he  _ was about to have an asthma attack. 

Reaching under his seatbelt, Richie pulled a sharpie out from his pants pocket, having swiped it from the front desk at the police station earlier. He uncapped it, the sharp sting of permanent marker reaching his nose almost immediately. He felt Eddie look over but ignored him as he started scribbling on chipped wood of the baseball bat.

When he finished, he turned it, subtly so that Eddie would notice but the rest of them wouldn’t. His chest tightened at Eddie’s smile once he saw Richie’s messy handwriting curved around the wood of the bat. 

_ this thing kills monsters _

Richie jostled forward as the car hit gravel, his knees knocking Eddie’s all the way into Mike’s as Bill steered them into the parking lot just past the kissing bridge. He pulled all the way off the road, just along the barrier and turned the car off. Once the keys were out of the ignition, he turned, eyes glancing off Stan in the passenger's seat and landing on the rest of them in the back.

“Everyone remember the way?” It was unceremonious, but it felt like if they didn’t get out of the car in the next couple of seconds they never would. Richie cleared his throat.

“Let’s go find this fucking clown.”


End file.
